On the other side of the wall, Gerhard’s valet bathes and dresses his master. Elfriede hears their voices, though she can’t make out the words—Gerhard’s gruff baritone, the valet’s soothing tenor. In that first year of marriage, honeymoon followed by pregnancy, Gerhard used to rise much earlier, six o’clock or even five, while Elfriede lingered abed until the maid arrived with her chocolate at eight. Now their roles are reversed. Elfriede’s up at six, bathed and dressed by six forty-five, upstairs in the nursery at seven, downstairs for her breakfast tray at eight, just as Gerhard wakes and rises from his own bed. These are Herr Doktor Rosenblatt’s instructions, by the way. Gerhard’s an invalid who needs his rest. At nine o’clock, Elfriede will knock on his door with a breakfast tray. She likes to do this herself, to pour his coffee and butter his toast, to read to him from the newspaper because his eyes are still weak. It’s the least she can do.

From the other side of the wall comes a thick laugh. Elfriede swallows her toast and looks at the clock on the mantel. Eight thirty-two. Drinks her coffee. Knocks the top from the egg in its porcelain cup. She can’t taste a thing, but she goes on eating anyway. Later, she won’t remember any of this. Won’t remember a single bite of that breakfast, although she eats it all, every crumb, every drop, egg and toast and fruit, cold ham, coffee with milk. When there’s nothing left, she looks again at the clock—eight forty-eight—and wipes her fingers on the napkin before she picks up the letter from the corner of the tray.

And what about Elfriede’s parents, by the way? What about her sister who stood bridesmaid, and her two brothers with their families? Why haven’t they offered her any support against the united von Kleist will? Elfriede’s always supposed they’re ashamed of her. But maybe it’s more complicated than that.