Morning light through the east windows turned the silver to mirrors. Gemma stirred her coffee, watching her reflection in the spoon, the same precise, unhurried movement she'd used since her mother taught her at twelve that breakfast is a performance of power.
Arthur came in through the servants' corridor. He'd tried to cover his sleeplessness with powder from Bronte's vanity, but the effect was theatrical, a Don playing a man possessed by ghosts.
He didn't touch his chair. He stood at the head of the table where Beatrice's place was set, pulling at his tie until the knot squeaked.
"Mother." He spoke to the empty chair. "I need to talk to you about the Marsh dinner."
Beatrice emerged from the study, newspaper under her arm. She didn't acknowledge her son, just walked past him to her seat, sat down, and opened the paper to the financial section.
"The Marsh Foundation Gala," Arthur continued. "Bronte has to be there. It's critical for her standing. For this family's standing. The invitations go out tomorrow, and if she's not on the list-"
"She won't be on the list." Gemma set down her spoon. The click against porcelain was louder than it should have been. "The invitations are for the Valdez family. I will be representing us."
Arthur turned his head. "What do you mean, you'll be there?"
Gemma reached into her bag beside her chair. What she pulled out was an envelope of heavy black paper, the Marsh family crest stamped in silver that caught the light like a blade.
"From Eldridge Marsh's office," she said. "Hand-delivered. He's heard about my work on the arts council and is interested in my opinion on his new acquisition for the Hirshhorn."
Arthur's hand reached for the envelope. Gemma moved her finger, two fingertips pressing the edge to the tablecloth, then sliding it back beside her own plate.
His hand hung in the air, absurd and arrested.
"You're lying." He withdrew his fingers, curling them into a fist. "The Marsh family doesn't do business with children. They do business with husbands. They do business with fathers. You're trying to-"
"She's doing your job." Beatrice didn't look up from her paper. "The Marshes invited Gemma because she has something they want. Competence. Discretion. The kind of cultural knowledge that makes a family look established rather than just rich." She turned a page. "You, Arthur, don't have anything they want. Your Don's seat is useful but not indispensable. Your wife is an embarrassment. Your daughter, apparently, is the only Valdez worth knowing."
"Mother-"
"I am not calling Eldridge Marsh to ask him to invite your wife." Beatrice's voice dropped low enough to rattle the crystal in the cabinet. "I am not owing that family a favor. I am not owing a favor to a man who eats politicians for breakfast and spits out their bones before lunch. If Bronte wants to attend Marsh events, she can marry someone else."
Arthur's face went the color of old ash. "If she's not there, it's over. The whispers will start. The invitations will stop. She'll be-"
"Dead?" Beatrice finally looked up. "Socially dead? Good. Maybe then you'll understand what the rest of us have known all along: she was never really alive to begin with. She's a parasite who fed on your weakness, and now that you're weak, she has no more use for you."
She went back to her paper. "Gemma will represent the Valdez family at the gala. She'll wear the emerald earrings your grandmother left her. If Eldridge Marsh asks her to dance, she'll dance; if he doesn't, she'll refuse him. She'll remind that family that Valdez women are not accessories to be borrowed and displayed. We are the display."
Arthur's hand slammed down on the table. The silver jumped. Coffee sloshed in Gemma's cup.
"This is my family," he said. His voice was cracking, splitting like ice in spring. "My house. My-"
"Your nothing." Beatrice's gaze met his over the edge of the paper. "You signed over your voting rights. You defended a woman who tried to destroy your daughter. You stand in my breakfast room demanding favors you never earned and cannot repay." She folded the paper and set it aside, reaching for her grapefruit spoon. "Go, Arthur. Before you embarrass yourself further."
He looked at Gemma. She met his gaze, expressionless, pitiless, empty of any emotion a daughter should have for a father.
He turned. He walked toward the door. His footsteps echoed in the silence, each one a small death.
The door slammed. The vibration carried through the table, through Gemma's hands, up into her shoulders.
"Eat your eggs," Beatrice said. "They're getting cold. And Gemma-"
"Yes, Grandmother?"
"Buy a new dress for the gala. Something that makes you look expensive and unattainable. Marsh men have a particular weakness for what they can't afford."
