Qhuinn, son of Lohstrong, entered his family's home through its grand front door. The instant he stepped over the threshold, the smell of the place curled up into his nose. Lemon polish. Beeswax candles. Fresh flowers from the garden that the doggen brought in daily. Perfume - his mother's. Cologne - his father's and his brother's. Cinnamon gum - his sister's. If the Glade company ever did an air freshener like this, it would be called something like Meadow of Old Money. Or Sunrise over a Fat Bank Account. Or maybe the ever-popular We're Just Better Than Everyone Else. Distant voices drifted over from the dining room, the vowels round as brilliant-cut diamonds, the consonants drawled out smooth and long as satin ribbons. "Oh, Lillie, this is lovely, thank you," his mother said to the server. "But that's too much for me. And do not give Solange so all that. She's getting heavy." Ah, yes, his mother's perma-diet inflicted on the next generation: Glymera females were supposed to disappear from sight when they turned sideways, each jutting collarbone, sunken cheek, and bony upper arm some kind of fucked-up badge of honor. As if resembling like a fire poker would make you a better person. And Scribe Virgin forefend if your daughter looked like she was healthy. "Ah, yes, thank you, Lilith," his father said evenly. "More for me, please." Qhuinn closed his eyes and tried to convince his body to