Victor did not come down for breakfast the next morning.
I was not worried. I had expected it. A man who had spent the night reading his dead brother's journals was not going to appear at the kitchen table at eight in the morning looking ready for the day. I made tea and sat alone and gave him the space that the night required.
Diana came down at nine.
She looked at the empty chair where Victor usually sat and then looked at me.
"The journals," I said.
She nodded and poured herself coffee and sat down and that was the end of that conversation. Diana had a gift for knowing when things did not need to be said out loud.
He appeared at noon.
He came into the kitchen and poured coffee and sat down and I looked at his face and understood immediately that the night had cost him something s
