She had traded a real self for a peaceful lie, and she had gotten neither the self nor the peace.

Now she had the self back, and the peace had come with it, unbidden, as though it had only ever been waiting for her to stop performing its opposite.

Months later, on an ordinary night, Lenore came home early.

The kitchen smelled of coffee — not expensive flowers or imported wine.

A single simple meal sat on the counter, with no place set for Margery or Georgina or guests who needed impressing.

She carried her plate to the sink when she finished and washed it because she wanted to, not because anyone had ordered her to stay behind while the others went out.