I slid out from under the blankets and went into the hall, and I followed the sound up the narrow stairs to the locked door at the top, the door with the key that lived around Victoria’s neck.

Except tonight the door was not locked.

Tonight it stood open a hand’s width, a bar of thin light falling out of it across the landing, and the sound had stopped, and the house held its breath, and I stood there with my heart going hard and knew that the sensible thing, the safe thing, was to go back down to bed and un-see the open door.

I did not do the sensible thing.

I had been swallowing my own instincts for weeks, packing them down, being easy, being generous, being the good new wife — and I was, all at once, so tired of it, so tired of the ledger and the smoothing-over and the careful shallow breathing of a husband who wouldn’t tell me the truth.

I put my fingertips against the door.