The door to our bedroom isn’t where it should be. It’s on its side, jutting onto the carpet, the splintered remnants of a chair piled beside it. Outside was noisy with chatter and music, and Sally was down in the bustling kitchen, surrounded by thick Norman walls, so none of us heard Hugh beating the door with the chair before he thought to take off its hinges.

He knows I locked him in. He’s known this whole time.

I bundle the kids into Emma’s room, onto the soft carpet and seat them, one after the other, in the exact center of the room, far from anything that can tumble or break. I feel my pulse like a war drum in my ears. I pick out a book for each of them—there are only picture books—and place one in each lap.

Charlie stares at the book, something about construction vehicles and zoo animals, too young for him by years. “Why am I in Emma’s room?”

“I’ll be back to get you ready for bed in a minute,” I say. “But stay here. Both of you. Do you understand me? Do not move from your spot.”

“Okay,” Charlie whispers, and even Emma nods, her lips pressed together pale white.

I shut their door, but not all the way, only enough to drown out whatever noises come from downstairs, then pad, carefully, hand tight on the slick banister, or is it my hand that’s slick?

No mistakes, no slips, no dying, not allowed.

I hear their voices again and feel like throwing up, feel like running away. I straighten my back, my face, and keep going.

“I’ve done nothing to stop you from leaving.” Matthew is snarling. What a sound. “If you wanted to be a coward again, you were free to do so.”

“You know, I didn’t take you for a liar, Matty,” Hugh says. “Even at the end, you let me down.”

I walk back into the room, and only a quarter of the faces still gathered around the table turn to me. The rest are locked on Hugh, petrified.

Matthew sees me. He pushes his chair back and steps away from the table with a shallow bow. “Lady Treadway, thank you for your gracious hospitality. I think we’d all better—”

“You’re not going anywhere,” Hugh says, and the collective gasp the room responds with echoes in my ears before I see that he’s holding the Enfield No. 2.

I thought he’d scoured the house for dangers, stowed it away to keep us all safe, but he’s had it in the pocket of his dinner jacket this whole time. Has he loaded it, or is this just for show?

I think of his rants, his paranoia, his I can’t lose any of you. That shattered door upstairs.

He’s loaded the fucking gun.