Chapter 2
The next morning, the housekeeper brought breakfast to the dining table one plate at a time.
Silverware chimed softly against china.
There were usually only two place settings at this hour - Alistair's and mine.
Today, a third chair had been pulled up, and a fresh croissant sat on the plate across from me.
Seraphine wore a cream knit sweater, her hair loosely pinned at the nape of her neck. Her face was still pale from the previous night's storm.
The housekeeper approached Alistair with the coffee pot, then hesitated.
"Sir, your coffee..."
"A little cream, please. No sugar."
Seraphine's quiet interruption stopped her.
The housekeeper glanced at me.
I sat across from Alistair, my spoon resting against the side of my bowl.
Seraphine seemed to realize what she had done and drew her hand back from the rim of her cup.
"I'm sorry, Eira. Old habit. He only drinks it that way when he has a migraine."
Alistair's fingers paused against his temple.
He looked at Seraphine, and some of the tension left his face.
"You remembered."
He accepted the coffee and took a sip.
He never looked at me.
He did not notice the glass of warm water by his left hand, either, or the two migraine tablets I had already taken from their foil packet.
I had done the same thing every morning for the better part of six months.
Now the glass looked strangely forlorn.
Alistair set down his coffee and leaned back.
Seraphine rose and crossed to the tall windows. She drew the gauze curtain halfway closed, cutting the sharp morning light.
"That should be easier on your eyes," she said with a smile.
Alistair closed them.
"It is."
Their familiarity moved beneath the room like a current, leaving me stranded on the opposite bank.
I lowered my gaze and cut into the yolk on my plate.
I did not speak.
I did not push the water toward him.
After breakfast, Alistair walked with Seraphine through the living room.
At the turn of the stairs, she slowed in front of the family photo wall.
At its center hung an oversized wedding portrait taken in Santorini on our fifth anniversary. I wore white. Alistair stood behind me with his arms around my waist, smiling at the camera.
Seraphine studied it.
"Eira is beautiful," she said softly, almost with a sigh.
"Seeing this makes me feel awful. I shouldn't have come back and disrupted your life."
Alistair stepped beside her and followed her gaze to the photograph.
His expression was unreadable in the shadow.
"Don't do that to yourself, Seraphine."
Then he reached up and took the portrait off the wall.
The movement was smooth and decisive.
"Alistair?" Seraphine breathed, surprise widening her eyes.
He carried the photograph to a storage cabinet near the foyer, opened the door, and slid it inside.
The latch clicked shut.
Our smiling faces disappeared behind glass and wood.
Alistair turned and found me watching from the second-floor landing, my hands resting on the banister.
He showed no embarrassment. No guilt.
"She's in a fragile place," he said. "The photograph is upsetting her. We'll put it back up later."
Later.
Not a date. Not even a promise.
Perhaps he never intended to hang it again.
I looked at him, then at the blank rectangle on the wall.
"Do whatever you want."
I did not go downstairs and fight him for the frame.
Instead, I returned to the study and opened my laptop.
I emailed the foundation's guest relations office.
[Any additional guest submitted under Alistair Vane's invitation must be approved by me in writing.]
The reply came ten minutes later.
[Mr. Vane's assistant has already submitted one additional guest. The request is awaiting final confirmation.]
Seraphine Lorne.
The submission had been made yesterday afternoon - six hours before she appeared in the rain.
I called the guest relations office.
"Put the credential on hold."
"Of course, Ms. Vale. But Mr. Vane's invitation includes one guest. If he confirms the name personally, we cannot refuse it without removing his corporate invitation as well."
"I understand. Send me the original submission and every amendment attached to it."
When I ended the call, a second email was waiting.
The Ashbourne Foundation's appointment committee had completed its review.
My proposal had ranked first.
The position of Director of Conservation and Curatorial Projects was mine if I accepted it before opening night.
This was not a favor from Caelan Ashbourne. Seven committee members had reviewed the proposal anonymously and chosen my work.
For the first time in two years, a door stood open in front of me.
I did not walk through it.
Not yet.
I placed my mother's catalog and the final production schedule in my work bag.
The calendar on my desk showed three days until opening night.