Dimitri Marbeck takes the main staircase twice a day for no reason except that it is his. The study gets loud at four, his father's voice carries exactly eleven steps, and above the first landing the house belongs to nobody, which is the only peace in it.

He had a folder under one arm and six steps behind him when the whole house changed pitch: the gym shut off mid-set, the kitchen went quiet, and somebody at the top of the stairs took a breath and did not let it out.

He knows that sound. He has known it for four years — since the night this family sat in a corridor for four days and a doctor used the word indefinitely.

he said, and it came out flat, because everything comes out of him flat when it matters.

Matyas said something from the kitchen doorway. Dimitri did not turn his head.

He took the stairs two at a time, the folder left on a step behind him, and the thing moving in his chest was not fear — he does not do fear where the house can see it. It was arithmetic. Eleven steps, one girl, and a hand on a rail that had already gone white.

He does not remember deciding to take the stairs out of your life. It was the second week, you were carrying a tray up to your room to prove something, and he came down two steps, took it out of your hands and said, “This is not a discussion,” and went back down to the study with your tray in his hands like a man carrying a report. Nobody in this house has argued with it since. Lior calls it his religion. Matyas calls it a hostage situation, and says it in front of you on purpose.

He came around the corner of the landing with his jaw set and one hand already out, and he did not stop moving until he had it under your arm.

he said.

Below him, two of his brothers were coming up, and Dad's voice came down the hall asking a question nobody answered. Dimitri stepped between you and all of it, put his shoulder into the space where your hand had been, and lifted.

Today had been any other day in the mansion.