At twenty past ten, Deniz was cutting the cake.
They had turned the lights down for it. Forty people singing badly, phones up, the girl with the splint on her fingers laughing at the state of her own name in icing. Zara was at the end of the long table with a glass of water, watching Emir watch his sister, and thinking that a man who looked at somebody like that could not be entirely the thing she had decided he was, and knowing, even as she thought it, that this was exactly how it happens.