Panic made him loud, and loud made it worse, and soon he was demanding that security remove me, his voice climbing over the orchestra.
And Poppy, who had already survived the worst day of her small life and now stood in a roaring room full of shouting adults, did what a frightened child does.
She let go of my hand and ran — toward a pair of tall private doors at the far end of the hall, as if some part of her already knew what waited behind them.
The doors opened before the guards could reach her.
A man stepped into the light: silver hair, straight back, a stillness that made the room quiet around him without his saying a word.
Poppy ran straight into him and looked up, her small face crumpling, and burst into tears.
“Grandpa!” she sobbed.
“Seraphina hurt me.
And Daddy just stood there.”
Aldous Crawford bent and lifted my daughter into his arms.