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I’m here now, he retorted.

He was back in England, to clean up the estate, manage his family, meet his wife.

His wife.

Another subject that he could examine only cautiously. He’d probably mishandled their first meeting. She was the opposite of what he expected. The Middle Way taught that beauty was only an outward shell, but Isidore’s beauty flared from within, as potent as a torch. She was like a princess, only he’d never seen a princess who had all her teeth.

At the very thought of her he had to slow down, because of confusion in his body about what he wanted to be doing at that moment. Running? Or—

The other.

He adjusted the front of his trousers and started to run faster.

Luncheon began on the wrong foot when Honeydew served bowls of thin broth. Simeon had forgotten that foolish English idea that broth was filling or, indeed, suitable for anyone but a wretched invalid.

He was ravenously hungry, having run an extra hour in a punitive effort to regain control over his body.

“I’ll wait for the next course,” he told Honeydew.

Honeydew nodded, but Simeon thought he saw anxiety in his eyes. The table was lit with tallow candles fit only for the servants’ quarters, so Simeon couldn’t see his face very clearly, but the reason for Honeydew’s anxiety was soon clear. Next they were each served one paper-thin slice of roast beef.

The following course was even more surprising. Simeon stared down at a sliced hard-boiled egg, across which was drizzled a brownish sauce, and lost his temper.

“Honeydew,” he said, keeping his voice even with an effort, “would you be so kind as to detail the menu?”

His mother intervened. “I designed the menu, as is necessary and proper. You can thank me, if you wish. This is a dish of oeufs au lapin.”

“Eggs,” Simeon said. “I see that.”

“With a sauce made from rabbit.”

“Ah.”

“Likely you have grown accustomed to rough fare,” she commented.

Godfrey was forking up his egg with a sort of desperate enthusiasm that made Simeon wonder about the next course.

There wasn’t one.

“You must be joking,” Simeon said, incredulous.

“We had eggs and meat in the same meal,” his mother said, staring at him. “And a sustaining broth to start. We do not eat lions’ flesh in England, you know! Your father and I always kept a moderate table.”

“This is not a moderate table,” Simeon said. “This is starvation fare.”

Godfrey leaned across the table and whispered loudly, “One of the footmen will bring you a large plate of bread and cheese before bed if you wish, Simeon. Sometimes there’s drippings as well.”

Their mother clearly heard, but she curled her lip and stared at the opposite wall.

No wonder the poor boy was round. Since his mother was not providing the food a growing boy needed, he had learned to hoard like a hungry beggar—and overeat when he had a chance. Simeon turned to the butler. “Honeydew, ask Mrs. Bullock to send whatever she can serve up within a few minutes, and I do not mean bread and cheese.”

Honeydew bowed and hastened from the room. His mother huffed and averted her eyes as if Simeon had belched in her presence.

But Godfrey asked, rather shyly, “Have you ever eaten a lion, brother?”

The dowager duchess opened her mouth and Godfrey amended his question, “Your Grace?”

“Not on a regular basis,” Simeon said. “There are tribes in the Barbary states who depend on lions as a source of food. I assure you that if they did not eat an occasional lion or two, the lions would multiply and gobble them instead.”