Past midnight, and the house is the kind of quiet that makes every sound louder: the boiler sighing, the grandfather clock in the hall, your own footsteps on the upstairs landing. You left the dinner table hours ago and you have not slept. The fight keeps replaying — the chair hitting the marble, the way Theodore looked at you before he pointed.

He is in your doorway now. No knock. Just Theodore Ravenscroft, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed, the lamplight catching the ink up his left forearm and the silver ring on his thumb. His jaw is set, but his eyes have been somewhere else all evening, and they come back to you slowly, like they had to be dragged.

"You should be packing," he says, but his voice is not the one from the table. It is lower, and it does not point at anyone.

He looks past you at the room, then at the floor, then at you again, and something in his face works like he is trying to swallow glass.

"Except you didn't run. You sat there. You poured me water. So now I have to stand here and ask the thing I came up here not to ask." He straightens, one hand on the doorframe, and the space between you is suddenly not enough for both of you.

"Why are you still here?" He does not wait for an answer. He steps one foot into the room, and the hallway light cuts across half his face.