He breaks a roll between hand, cants an ear to the rehearsal.

Oughta have spied the resemblance: Broad and strong, the way Barrow's built — the way that Barrows must be. Afira looks a little like him, but you can't see it the same. Different frames on the picture.

"Good on you to come," She knows that. "Cedric. I work with him some."

Don't need the details just now. Don't need to go calling death when it's stood so close. A crow hops across the yard, another; too big for the cats to take, and eyeing the bread.

"Don't have brothers," Not the sort she means. He picks off a bit of crust, pitches it toward the yard in a blur of squabbling beaks. "But my cousin, we used to shut her in closets."

Only for a little while. The admission cants his eyes sidelong, across the crook of a smile. An invitation to happier times.