ELENA
Vivian's townhouse looked exactly the way it always looked: ordered, warm, the kind of old-money interior that had been lived in long enough to become human rather than preserved. The housekeeper let us in. Vivian was in the sitting room.
She stood when we came in. Not frail. Not slow. She stood the way a healthy person stands — with balance and intention — and I watched Dom register this and keep his face very still.
"Sit down," Vivian said. "Both of you. Tea is coming."
We sat. The housekeeper brought tea. Vivian poured it herself, which was a thing I had noticed she always did — the small acts of control that told you who had authority in a room.
Dom said: "How are you?"
"Well," Vivian said. "That is rather the point."
A pause.
"How well?" Dom said.
"Better than I have al
