Sabetha sat enthroned on a long sofa flanked by her two daughters, Coraline and Bruna, and the three of them were murmuring together with the wounded indignation of women who had convinced themselves that they were the injured party.

“Was all of that really necessary last night?” Sabetha said, the moment Marisela entered, pitching it for the room.

“Everyone went home talking about your attitude.

Do you have any idea how embarrassing —”

Marisela offered her nothing at all.

Not a word, not a flinch, not the small defensive tightening that Sabetha had spent two years learning to provoke and enjoy.