BELLA'S POV
The schedule appeared on a Saturday.
It was on the kitchen counter when I came down at eight-fifteen, which was not my usual time, my usual time was eight-forty, the kitchen arriving at a point in the morning when Dominic had already taken his coffee to the study and my mother was halfway through hers at the island, and the kitchen had become, without anyone articulating it as such, a room whose occupancy pattern had been settled into the comfortable grooves of three people learning how not to be in each other's way.
Eight-fifteen was earlier than my usual.
I had slept badly. Not badly in the sense of nightmares or discomfort, the bed in my room was very good, which was a specific quality of this house, the beds were good everywhere in it. Badly in the sense of the ceiling
