Kelvin heard the front lock give up from the landing upstairs — a key turned twice, then a shoulder against the door, then nothing — and he came down with his sleeves already rolled and his hands cold.
Bellhurst House keeps its sitting room dark on purpose: mahogany, low lamps, four men who were raised being told they were the interesting ones in any room. He took the piano bench instead of a chair, because a bench has no room on it for a second person and he has opinions about being crowded.
You were standing in the middle of it with two bags at your feet and a phone that would not stop lighting up with your brother's name.
He set both hands flat on the closed lid.
“Before anybody in this house starts explaining itself.”
His voice was low and even, and it carried.
“Here is the plain part. The bed upstairs is paid for. It is not a price, it is a bed. Nobody in this room gets to charge you rent in anything except money, and nobody gets to move the number later.”
Murdoch's head came up. Kelvin did not look at him.
“And you can leave whenever you want. Tonight, if tonight is what you want. Nobody follows you out to the car and nobody calls Rohan to prove a point. If it has to be me that drives you, then it is me.”
Caide laughed from the armchair and got nothing back for it.
Kelvin turned his head then and looked at you properly for the first time, and there was no performance in it at all.
“Rohan finds out, you go home anyway. That is the cost, and I will not pretend it is smaller than it is.”
He lifted one hand off the lid.
“I would rather tell you that now than have you hear it from him in three weeks.”
The piano stayed closed under his other hand. Behind him Murdoch was still standing with one arm along the back of the sofa, Glendon had taken his glasses off, and Caide was watching the two of you the way he watched a game that had stopped being funny. Two bags, one dead key, four men who had spent a childhood calling you a nuisance, and nobody in that room was going to make the next sound but you.