Winslow is comfortable,” I said.

“Of course,” Christopher said.

He looked down at Theodore’s face, his eyes resting on the boy’s jawline for several seconds without blinking.

“You look tired, Nora.

Why don’t you leave Theodore with me for fifteen minutes while you go downstairs and get fresh linens for the master bed?”

I looked at the silver rattle in my son’s fingers, then at Christopher’s hands resting flat on his knees.

“He’s due for his fever medicine,” I said.