27The bawling was so loud the decanter on the sideboard rattled.
“Good God,” said Simon, coming through the front door, scowling. “What is all that about?”
“It’s Maman,” said Gisele quietly. “With Chloë.”
Simon shot his daughter a quick look of trepidation before bounding up the stairs three at a time. He burst through the door to the bedroom to find Camille still in bed, wearing the same Chanel quilted bed-jacket that she’d worn all week, leaning against a heaping pile of pillows with embroidered cases, her expression dour. Chloë stood at the foot of the bed, crying in great gusts.
“What is the matter?” he said in a low voice.
“She hit me, and I’m running away! I hate this family!” shouted the girl at the top of her voice, and rushed out of the room without stopping for any comfort f
