A napkin held a small spot of Lenore’s blood, and shards of a broken glass still lay on the kitchen floor.

Lenore walked past them without stopping.

For eight years she had been the one who swept up the glass, who reset the table, who smoothed over whatever needed smoothing so the evening could go on looking perfect.

This time she didn’t pick anything up.

She left the glass where it had fallen, the way you leave behind a country you’ve finally decided not to live in anymore, and she went down to the room under the house to become, for one night, the person she actually was.

She had cut her finger on that glass an hour earlier, washing up after a dinner she had cooked and served and cleared while Margery directed and Crispin dressed for a gala he’d told her she wasn’t attending.