Karl’s glass remained on the table. He looked down at his plate, noticing the reflection of the lights in the silverware.

“What’s wrong, Karl? Don’t you agree?” Herman asked.

He didn’t answer, instead folding his napkin and letting the question die out by slowly getting up and leaving the table. He felt dizzy from the alcohol as he walked down the hallway, past the many rooms. He heard the muffled sound of laughter from the dining room when he came into the kitchen, which smelled strongly of red wine sauce.

The girls stood at the kitchen counter, setting out the dessert plates in three parallel rows.

He didn’t have the energy to filter himself. His voice was hard.

“Go and serve more wine. Now!” he commanded.

The girls immediately disappeared from sight.

Alone in the kitchen, he decided he would hire different staff for the next dinner party. Over the years, he had built up a large and impressive circle of friends, and they expected only the best service. He couldn’t employ just whatever bungling idiots happened to come along.

With his hands shaking, he hung his jacket on the back of a chair. The collar of his white shirt was damp with sweat. He drew his hand through his thick gray hair and listened to his guests’ glasses clink against one another.

He knew that he should go back to the dining room, but instead he picked up a bottle of wine, opened it and took three big gulps. Nausea hit him immediately and he leaned over the sink and vomited.

“Karl?”

He heard Margaretha’s voice far away, traveling through the walls.

He heard a door close and small, quick steps pass over the floor. Her voice became clearer as she came closer.

“Karl?”

Suddenly, the kitchen door opened. “Karl? What are you doing in here? Come back now, the guests are wondering where you are.”

“I’m coming,” he said without turning around, avoiding her quisitive gaze.

“Hurry, please.”

“I said, I’m coming!”

He didn’t feel like covering up his irritation. It felt good to release the anger, even though it was really toward...Jana.

He looked down at his hands, remembering the first time he’d let them touch his adopted daughter’s cheek. She was nine years old. They were late to dinner at the Swedberg’s house, and Jana came slowly down the stairs of their house in the wealthy Lindö neighborhood.

He and Margaretha were waiting for her. She was wearing an evening gown; he was in a tuxedo, his overcoat over one arm. His hair was combed back and his face clean-shaven.

“Hurry up now,” he said to his daughter, moving her hair to the side and seeing that the bandage was no longer there. He saw the three distorted letters.

“Why did you take the bandage off? Didn’t I tell you that you always have to hide that? Always cover it up?”