It was Sophie, Wesley’s youngest cousin, a college student who had barely spoken at family functions.
She clapped a hand over her mouth, cheeks flushing.
Margaret glared.
“Something amusing?”
Sophie lowered her hand.
“Honestly? Yes. The map line was good.”
The tension cracked, not enough to disappear, but enough to let air into the room.
Margaret’s control had always depended on everyone pretending her cruelty was elegance.
Sophie’s small laugh revealed how tired they were of pretending.
Charles stepped forward and opened the velvet box.
Inside, the black collar rested against satin, absurdly tiny, its gold bell bright beneath the chandelier.
He picked it up, his expression unreadable, then handed it to Captain Ortiz.
“Please dispose of this.”
Margaret inhaled sharply.
“Charles.”
“No,” he said. “There will be no relics.”
Captain Ortiz took it without ceremony.
The bell jingled once as it left the box.
June stirred again, and I felt an irrational wish that she never remember any sound like it.
Wesley reached toward us, then stopped before touching my arm.
The restraint mattered.
“Can I hold her?” he asked.
Yesterday, I might have handed her over automatically.
