And so the night went, Wallis and I sometimes together, sometimes apart. I mingled more easily than usual. The Reeds’ friends and family were delightful, many had interesting anecdotes from long, distinguished careers, as well as hilarious stories of Bo and Jessica as babies and young children. When it was time for dinner, the head waiter rang a brass handbell with a wooden handle. My grandmother’s, said Bo, as we moved to the next stage of the evening. In the large dining room, the walls of which were wrapped with a bucolic mural, we were seated on either side of Bo. During the meal, there was a toast or two—tears in the handsome groom’s eyes but he spoke too hastily, fumbled lines, certainly not a natural orator. Is he good enough for Jessica? This question was a little uncharitable, admittedly. Did I really expect all men to dazzle? If so, my sister was rubbing off on me.

I checked on Wallis then, and throughout dinner, evaluating her mood, hoping she was having as enjoyable a time as I was. I could not fault her performance. It was convincing. But only I knew her well enough to see her moments of distraction, to notice the occasions when her eyes unfocused, when she activated her automaton—uh-huh, yes, totally, right. Her hands, always occupied with either a drink or her phone.

It was well after midnight when I woke up, cold, hungry, next to a gently snoring Wallis, who’d stolen all the covers. I had fallen asleep in my dress and mascara, my phone on my chest.

I changed into my pajamas in the bathroom. I’d brought my nicest ones, thinking, I don’t know, of impressions? It seemed ridiculous now as I turned off my bedside lamp and crept out. The hallway sconces were still on, so getting downstairs was not a problem. Toward the kitchen, also illuminated, I heard footsteps and the sound of plates being stacked. A roadblock, then, between me and the remaining slices of cheese and salami from the charcuterie board.