“She’s not her daughter,” I said.
Draven Vescari read the line beneath the photograph.
“Does your mother know?”
“No.”
That was the first thing to put right.
I folded the program rather than tear it. The thick paper resisted beneath my thumb.
“I’m going to ask her what I can say.”
“I can have the organizers remove this.”
“No. Not yet.”
His gaze rose from the page.
“She agreed to answer before the provider,” I said. “I want her to do it.”
***
On the morning of 8 September, Iris Ellery sat beside her open window with a cardigan over her knees.
I had brought the program. She held it away from her face, searching for the reading glasses already hanging from her neck.
“Here,” I said, touching the cord.
“I knew where they were.”
“Of course.”
She put them on and read.
Her eyebrow
