“Now?” Iris asked. She almost suggested that he wait until Fleur had had time to calm down, but what did she know? She hadn’t a clue what was happening. A quarter of an hour ago she’d been peacefully reading a novel. Now she felt as if she were living in one.

And she was the only character who did not seem to know the plot.

Richard stared up at the house, his expression stark. Iris watched as his mouth flattened into a hard, forbidding line. “It’s got to be done,” he muttered. Without further farewell, he stalked off into the house, leaving Iris and Marie-Claire alone in the drive.

Iris cleared her throat. This was awkward. She smiled at her new sister, the kind where you can’t quite manage to show your teeth, but it’s not really insincere because truly, you’re trying.

Marie-Claire smiled back in precisely the same way.

“It’s a nice day,” Iris finally said.

Marie-Claire nodded slowly. “Yes.”

“Sunny.”

“Yes.”

Iris realized she was rocking on her feet, up to her toes and back to her heels. She clamped herself back into place. What on earth was she supposed to say to this girl?

But in the end she didn’t have to say anything. Because Marie-Claire turned and looked at her with an expression that Iris greatly feared was pity.

“You don’t know, do you?” the younger girl said softly.

Iris shook her head.

Marie-Claire glanced over her shoulder, staring at absolutely nothing before turning back to Iris. “I’m sorry.”

Then she, too, walked into the house.

And Iris just stood in the drive.

Alone.

“OPEN THE DOOR, FLEUR!”

Richard pounded his fist against the wood, oblivious to the shock reverberating down his arm.

Fleur made no response, not that he’d thought she would.

“Fleur!” he roared.

Nothing.

“I’m not leaving this spot until you open the door,” he growled.

At that he heard footsteps, followed by, “Then I hope you don’t need to use the chamber pot!”

He was going to kill her. Surely no older brother had ever been pushed quite so far.

He took a breath, then let it out in a lengthy exhale. Nothing would come of his bad temper. One of them needed to act like an adult. He flexed his fingers, straight out, then back into fists. The bite of his nails in his palms had a paradoxically calming effect.

Calming. But he was not calm, not by any stretch.

“I cannot help you if you will not speak to me,” he said, his voice tightly controlled.

No response.