I got up from the edge of the mattress and stepped three feet back into the shadow of the velvet curtains.

I tucked Theodore’s head under my chin to quiet his soft babbling.

Christopher Winslow walked through the double oak doors without knocking.

His dark hair was brushed flat against his head, and his tailored gray jacket smelled faintly of expensive cigar smoke and mint.

“Why is the nursery light off in the west wing, Nora?” he asked.

“The radiator in there is clanking, sir,” I said.

“The steam pipe keeps waking the baby.”