Before her mother has a chance to reply, the door swings open, and in a flash, a girl is colliding with Maxine. “You’re home, you’re home!” she yells.

This must be Nina, then.

She’s the only person I’ve ever heard Maxine speak about with softness. Her baby sister, nine years her junior. Born to her mother and stepfather after Maxine’s father passed away when she was young. Nina is Maxine’s opposite in every way, short where Maxine is tall, hair so dark it is almost black, bouncy and loud where Maxine is, well… Maxine.

But the eyes are the same. I can see the ice gray of Nina’s even from here.

They sway back and forth, then break out an elaborate handshake, and my heart swells, witnessing this show of sibling affection.

There was a stupid hand game William and I used to play every chance we got. We’d play at church and the schoolyard and evening in front of the fire until our mother begged us to stop. It involved doing a series of hand motions again and again until someone made an error. Our record was fourteen. Looking at Maxine and Nina I realize I’ll never play the game again. Fourteen will stay our record forever.

That’s one of the things I’ve learned about grief: you can’t expect it, you can’t control it, and sometimes the white-hot knife of hurt twists in your gut in the middle of your friend’s Parisian flat and there’s nothing you can do about it.

Lena and I let Maxine reunite with her mother and sister in privacy and follow another member of the household staff through the sprawling residence to our rooms. She gives us a tour on the way, pointing out the staff’s staircase, the family wing, Maxine’s stepfather’s study, the parlor, the library, the butler’s pantry.

Despite the palatial residence, Lena’s and my rooms are right across the hall from each other, one bedecked in pink brocade, Lena’s, and the other in blue and white chinoiserie, mine.

Out of habit, I check the window first. It latches and unlatches easily, opening to the fire escape with rickety steps that lead all the way down into the courtyard. I smile to myself, easy enough to sneak out of. I’ll need to, when the time comes, I think.