Apparently it was—okay—because Sophie-girl did. Drifting into that dazy passivity again. Speaking as from a dream, the long-dammed current of the tale flowing out of her, seeming more alive than she.

“I hardly remember her. Except her smiling. Sitting in a chair, watching me play with Nanny in the garden. I know she loved the Grange, our house. Her family, her family history. It was very important to her. Fulfilling her responsibilities, you know. To our tenants, the community and so on. Everyone says she was just wonderful. Very warm, very charitable, kind. And fun—she liked shows and music. Oh, and the cinema—she adored Hollywood films She had a wonderful sense of humor … You get left with that, traits like that, words … They don’t really tell one very much, do they? But I have … I used to have photographs. And she seemed … There was something lovely there, generous. People say she balanced my father. I can imagine that. He’s so definite about everything. Very old guard, very conservative. Peter—my brother—says Mother used to tease him about it, bring him out of it. I’ve tried to do that sometimes, but …” She shook her head, shook this off, still gazing away. She tried again to adopt a more businesslike tone, her usual tone. “Apparently people say she got very depressed after each of the children were born. What we would call post-natal depression nowadays. But back then … I don’t know. I don’t know why she did it, really. Killed herself. Sometimes I feel quite cross with her about it. I suppose that’s awful of me.”

She betrayed herself with a quick glance at him—a glance to see if he thought it was awful too.

“It’s just natural, kid,” he said. “It’s just one of those things people feel.”

The blood rushed to her cheeks. Auf diese schmerzensreu fallt mir alsdenn dies trostwort bei, the soprano sang on the stereo.

“As I say, no one will ever talk about it,” Sophia went on. “Certainly not my father, and he’s the only one who might know.”

Storm rested his head on his hand, between thumb and forefinger, his elbow on the arm of his chair. He was growing careful now. He composed his expression carefully. He knew—he sensed at least—how exposed to him she was, how delicate. If ever she is deprived of her monumental defenses, you will find her to be as fragile as bliss—and every bit as precious. Storm even breathed carefully, tense. “But—what?” he said. “You think your mother’s suicide might have had something to do with your father’s … with his business dealings.”

“No,” she said quickly. Then, vaguely, she waved her hand. “I don’t know. I really don’t.”

“But something made you think your father might be involved in the murder of the resurrection guy. Something about your mother’s death. Is that right?”