“No. It’s all about this new dog. They’re all besotted with him. Oh, here we are: Mary’s had measles but she’s all right now. Peter won a cup for chess. No other news.”

“Shall I read, then?” Jean picked up The Nine Tailors.

“I’m still eating.”

“Doesn’t matter. You can eat and listen at the same time, surely?”

“Go on, then.”

After an hour her mother begged her to stop; she was drowsy and wanted nothing more than to nod off. Jean closed the book and withdrew, dismissed, dreading her own company. Being left alone with her thoughts was like sharing a prison cell with a lunatic—terrifying and inescapable.

She felt a sort of rage toward Alice for handing her this burden from which there could be no relief. She could never tell Gretchen or Howard that Margaret was the product of rape, her angel voices perhaps a sign of something dark and destructive to come. It would be pointless and cruel and blight all of their lives. And she herself would never be able to look at Margaret’s innocent face without the shadow of that knowledge coming between them. She would always now be watchful and fearful.

Another issue—less serious but still a tax on her spirits—was Roy Drake. She couldn’t share her discovery about Victor with him—or anyone else—while keeping it from Gretchen. But if she didn’t tell him, and proceeded to publish the story as planned, she would be perpetrating a deception against him and the Echo and all of their readers. Whichever way she turned it around in her mind, there was no way to make it good.

Two things stood out clearly, though. Margaret was owed every advantage that a united family could bring—all other considerations blew away like straws in a gale. The other certainty: if she spoke out, it must be now; if she kept quiet, it must be forever.

Jean lay on the couch in the living room as the night deepened around her. She was determined not to move from there until she had decided what to do. The coals in the grate had given up the last of their heat some hours ago and the temperature was dropping rapidly. Through the open curtains she could see a bright sickle moon and a smudge of stars. There was a sort of majesty in the indifference of the universe, but its vastness didn’t seem to make her own dilemma any less significant.

The hours passed, marked by the whirr and scrape of the hall clock. At three o’clock she levered herself up, creaking and stiff with cold, and took a sheet of paper and pen from her mother’s writing case in the bureau.

Home, 3 a.m.

Dear Howard,

It’s only a few days since we were walking in the woods but it seems far longer. I’m sorry I didn’t offer much in the way of sympathy or support after springing Gretchen’s news on you—I was out of sorts and thinking only of myself. I’ve had time to reflect now.