“We?”

He looked past me toward the dining room, where Beatrix’s guests had gathered by the bar. “This dinner matters. You know that.”

Sabina’s cheek burned against my neck. “Not more than she does.”

His jaw hardened. “Don’t turn this into a performance.”

There it was. Their favorite word for anything I did that disturbed their comfort. Performance. Drama. Overreaction. As if a mother carrying a dangerously feverish child were putting on a show — as if Sabina’s flushed face and shallow breathing were inconvenient decorations that had appeared in the wrong hallway.

I stepped forward. Thatcher moved too, blocking the entrance.