“It’s me, Daddy,” said Sophia. And she was begging him. “Look at me. I’m not right. You never told me anything and now I’m not right. I almost died, Daddy. And I shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t be like this. I shouldn’t be the way I am. Should I? Hurting myself?”

“Be quiet,” Sir Michael barked without turning to her.

“I was trying to protect you,” she said. “I’ve been trying to protect you and I don’t even know why. Why is my mother dead, why am I like this, what’s going on, tell me.”

Storm had about had it with this staring contest. He could hear what was happening to Sophia, he could hear her voice, the pitch rising, hysteria near. And he could see her face straining forward, the tears coursing down it.

But Sir Michael wouldn’t look at her, wouldn’t release him, kept glowering at him like some living skull from one of his own movies.

“I swear to God you’re a dead man,” Sir Michael whispered.

And Storm smiled with one corner of his mouth. “Hey, guess what, babe. It doesn’t matter. You’re still gonna have to deal with her.”

“Don’t tell me how to deal with my daughter, you—”

And suddenly Sophia lost control. She started screaming in a wild, high-pitched, frantic babble that made Sir Michael start back, that scared Storm witless. Her fists flew up around her ears, her eyes squeezed shut, her hair flew back and forth across her face and she went on screaming:

“It’s not him, it’s not him, it’s me, it’s me dying it’s like I’m dying Daddy listen look at me look at me tell me! Tell me! Tell me! Tell me! Tell me!”

“Jesus, Sophie,” said Storm.

He put out a hand to her. She staggered back out of his reach. She clutched at her stomach. Flinched, bent over, gasped aloud. And then covered her open mouth with her hand so that her eyes peered over it, wide, shocked.

“Oh …” she said.

And before Storm could move to her, she stumbled away from him. She clutched at the sofa and pulled herself forward. Storm was afraid she was going to fall. But she started running. She ran out of the room.

Storm made to follow her. Sir Michael let out a rough growl and grabbed him by the arm. Storm tore free, spun, his fist cocked at his chin. Sir Michael recoiled, threw his arm up, expecting the punch.

They froze like that, with the wind beating at the window, with another burr of thunder, coming softer now, from farther away.

Sir Michael lowered his arm, his face reddening. “You …” he spluttered. “You filthy …”

Storm smiled. Let his fist open, let his hand drop to his side. He narrowed his eyes in a gunfighter squint.

“Jew,” he drawled, “is the word you want.”