"Such company you keep, Beni," Calpurnia continues, as though she didn't even hear Byerly's vicious response, "to think the scion of the Artemaeus line should be the spineless lackey of nobility whose own dogfucker family doesn't want him, in the so-called military organization the Elder One will have wiped out within a year. I imagine you're quite proud of yourself."

Benedict doesn't answer, either out of common sense or out of the eminent knowledge that when his mother gets going, it's better to simply let her get it all out. After several long, dead-eyed moments of leaning against the wall, he rises from it, drifting listlessly past her, to sit with his legs folded up on the cold hearth beside Byerly.

He rests his mouth on his knees, his long arms wrapped around them to pull himself into as tight of a ball as his gangly form can manage. Whatever's happening, there are many hours left in the night, and this isn't going away anytime soon.