Friday breakfast was exactly what Helena had promised.
Mrs. Park produced something with eggs and herbs and toasted bread that smelled like a restaurant and tasted better than anything I had eaten in the last two weeks. Helena ate with the appetite of someone who had decided at some point in her eighties that enjoyment was no longer optional. She talked about the garden and a book she was reading and asked Mrs. Park three questions about the weekend schedule that Mrs. Park answered without needing to check anything.
Damien came down at eight fifteen.
He sat at his usual place, accepted coffee without asking, and looked at me once across the table.
I looked back.
Neither of us said anything about the night before. Not the gala. Not Selene. Not the phone call that I was not supposed to
