My lower back throbbed so badly I had to brace myself against the counter every time I turned.
I had eaten two crackers all day because every time I tried to make a plate for myself, another request came from the dining room.
The table looked beautiful.
I hate that I remember that.
Candlelight glowed against crystal glasses.
Silver cutlery flashed beside bone china plates.
White roses sat low and perfect down the center of the table.
Beyond the windows, snow fell softly over Margaret’s meticulously lit front garden.
Inside, the room smelled like rosemary, butter, red wine, and the kind of wealth that expects not to be questioned.
Thomas sat at the head of the table beside Jonathan Mercer, laughing about a judge neither of them respected enough to stop mocking.
Margaret sat to Thomas’s right like a queen receiving tribute.
I was still carrying dishes in and out when she called sharply across the room, asking where the cranberry sauce was because Thomas’s plate looked dry.
