The bourbon, like nails going down at first, quickly refreshed Henry’s buzz, and soon it seemed to have cast a spell on all of them. Max and Clara waltzed together over the rug. Effie kicked her sandals off and ran, holding her arms out to her sides, in a track that went from the den back through the dining room and kitchen and into the den again on the opposite side. She had never, she announced, run indoors, not since she was a child. Henry chased her on the third lap and caught her in the dark dining room, pressed her against the table, breathing onto her neck, as she caught her breath and seemed to wait for what he was going to do—until Max called from the den: “Hank, where are you? I challenge you to a duel.” They found him in front of the hearth holding one of the swords, testing its weight. Henry pulled the other one down from its mount, and in slow motion—the swords were heavy—they clashed them together. “Oh God, I can’t look at this,” Clara said, and crossed back over to the bar. And sure enough, after a few swings, Max popped Henry on the knuckle, and Henry dropped his sword. “Ah, shit, Hank, I’m sorry,” Max said, and Henry laughed and said it was all right. It was a small cut, but the blood appeared immediately. These swords were the real thing. “Well—dumbass,” Effie said, coming quickly to him and taking his hand, and to his surprise, she brought it to her mouth and gently sucked at the cut. Henry couldn’t have done that. Just the sight of blood made him light-headed. He sat on the rug beside his sword. Max said he’d look for bandages. Clara said she’d refill his glass. True to his word, Max returned a minute later with a bandage—he’d found a lavatory—and Effie affixed it to his knuckle, and kissed it.

They all settled on the floor by the sofa with their refilled drinks. The bourbon was going down easily now. Max had put on a Mozart clarinet concerto. There was an impressive classical collection here, he said. He wondered if they should build a fire, but Clara said she would absolutely forbid it, and besides, it was a warm night.

“They like pillows, don’t they?” Effie said. As in the game room upstairs, there were pillows scattered here and there all around the perimeter of the space, on the floor as well as the sofa, and Max said, “It’s for the orgies.” Effie laughed, but he pressed on: “It’s true. You don’t know thespians. It’s a free-for-all in that set, God bless them. Isn’t that right, Clare?”

“Oh yes.” She raised her glass. “That’s my tribe.”