But three thousand miles away, the Prewitt house was full.

Extended family, distant cousins, the whole gilded apparatus of a name that liked to see itself gathered.

The dining room ran the length of a small country and the table groaned under all of it — the enormous bird, the potatoes, the good crystal that only came out when there was someone to impress.

And in the middle of it, Theo.

Four years old, dressed like a small prince, passed hand to hand and introduced and cooed over.