Beatrix gave a short laugh. “That’s absurd.”

Thatcher didn’t laugh. For the first time, I saw fear cross his face. Not shame. Not concern for Sabina. Fear. He knew enough to suspect I might be telling the truth, and little enough to realize he’d spent years building authority on ground he didn’t own.

“You’re upset,” he said carefully. “We’ll discuss this later.”

“No,” I replied. “You’ll move out of the way now.”

His gaze shifted toward the dining room. The guests were arriving; I heard Beatrix’s sister greeting someone in a delighted, high voice. A server appeared at the end of the corridor, saw us, and vanished with the instincts of service workers everywhere.

“Vivian,” Thatcher said, gentler now, “think about how this looks.”