"We have the right people."
"Five—"
"Five people who've built this compound over three years and know every piece of it." Ryke held his father's gaze. "Six, now. Reine has standing. She's choosing to use it here." A pause. "Seven, with you, if you're doing what I think you're doing."
Holt was quiet.
"Are you staying," Ryke said.
Not accusatory. A genuine question. The kind he was learning to ask directly instead of waiting for information to arrive through architecture.
Holt looked at the table. At the cup. At the kitchen that his son had built in a town that had been built before any of the things Holt had spent thirty years building.
"For a while," he said. "If that's—"
"Yes," Ryke said.
Holt looked at him.
"Yes," Ryke said again. "Stay."
The word that cost something to say an
