I’m leaving.” A young server in a black vest looked at Sabina and stepped aside at once, his party expression giving way to real concern.

I reached the middle of the hallway before Beatrix blocked my path.

My mother-in-law wore a wine-colored silk gown, pearls, a diamond bracelet on one wrist, her silver hair in a flawless twist. She looked like the kind of woman magazines photographed beside grand fireplaces.

She never looked at Sabina. Not once. Her gaze moved from my flats to my sweater to the blanket in my arms, as though I’d carried a domestic inconvenience into her evening.

“Where exactly do you think you’re going?”

“To urgent care,” I said. “Her fever’s too high.”

Beatrix glanced toward the dining room. “Guests are arriving in twenty minutes.”

“I heard you.”

“You’re supposed to be supervising the kitchen. Thatcher’s uncle is bringing investors tonight. People who matter. This is not the time for one of your emotional scenes.”

I stared at her. Someone in the living room praised the flower arrangements — white roses in tall glass vases on every table. I’d paid for those flowers.

I’d approved the bill. I’d chosen the florist because Beatrix insisted only a “certain level” of guest would notice if the arrangements looked ordinary.

Sabina shifted and made a faint sound.