Beside him, Margaret sat in a high-backed velvet wingback chair with an embroidered linen napkin in her lap.

“Ethan,” Richard said, his formal courtroom phrasing cutting cleanly through the crackle of the fire.

“Who are these children?”

Ethan turned his gold signet ring twice around his left ring finger, his smooth face losing its practiced polish.

“Grace, what is this supposed to be?”

“You sent me an email inviting me to Christmas Eve dinner,” I said, adjusting my silver wristwatch with my right thumb.

“I brought my sons.”