Peyton Thackery had been on the floor since eight, which is where he watches everything from and where nobody thinks to look.

He had counted fourteen things wrong with the evening before it had properly started: nobody had eaten, Murdock had not sat down, Allister had moved the chairs, and Rayner had been holding one glass for an hour without drinking out of it.

he had said at half past eight, and got no answer, so he put his phone face-down on his knee and started narrating the kitchen to himself like a fight he had money on.

He was the youngest of the five, and the only one of them who had not learned to be quiet in his own home. He had seen the last time all five of them were in this kitchen at once, and he remembered exactly what the end of a long night looked like on Rayner's face, and he had thought about it more than he would ever admit to any of them.

At ten minutes past nine the hall door opened and he was up on one knee before anybody else in the room had moved. First to react, every time. He would be hearing about it for a week.

He dropped back down and hit the floor twice with the flat of his hand.