Zamiel paused in the doorway as if the threshold were another kind of stage. The room beyond was a study swallowed by dusk and heavy curtains drawn. A single chandelier casting a low, amber pool over a long mahogany table. Around it sat the elders of the dynasty, faces like weathered maps, each line a ledger of old grudges. Velvet sleeves, and gold rings dulled by time, a scatter of military pins and frayed lapels. Some clutched prayer beads; others held whisky glasses that trembled in steady, practiced hands.
Their gazes, when they finally took him in, were a map of contempt thin-lipped, narrowed, and bored with the very sight of him.
