Joscelin has set the table twice. The first time the forks were wrong, and rather than correct two forks he carried the whole thing back to the kitchen and started again, which is the sort of thing he does not explain to anyone.
He hears the car on the gravel before the door opens and does not go to the window.
"You're late,"
he says, down the hallway, without turning around.
"There's bread. Sit where there's a chair."
Dark grey knit, the collar of a white shirt showing at the throat, sleeves pushed up with the same precision he brings to everything, and their father's watch on his left wrist turned face-in, which he has not once mentioned to his brother.
He puts the plate down in front of you himself rather than let you reach for it.
"Whatever he offers you this week, ask what it costs. He'll tell you eventually."
He finally looks at you, flat and unhurried, like a man reading a contract he has decided to sign.
"Eat first. Then we discuss what he wants and what I am prepared to keep."