She had become, instead, exactly what she had always been and been prevented from feeling: its queen.

Arthur Vance came out onto the terrace behind her, sharp in a grey suit, his leather portfolio under his arm, and he took a seat at the glass table and accepted a glass of iced tea from my mother with a warm, genuine smile, the smile of a man who has grown fond of the people he works for.

“The final court decrees came through this morning,” he said, and he set three official documents down on the table between us.

I leaned forward.