My father sits at the head of the table the way he always sits. Straight. Still. The posture of a man who learned early that authority is performed in the spine first and everything else second.
Damon is to his right. I am to his left, which sounds like the position of importance it isn't. It's where you put the thing you need to keep an eye on without appearing to look at it directly.
The dining room smells like the rosemary the kitchen puts in everything, rosemary and the faint underlayer of the wood polish on the table, something dark and chemical that I've never found pleasant but have eaten next to my entire life. There are three place settings. Silver-rimmed, pack crest in the center of each plate. Mary doesn't eat with us. She never has. My father pays her enough to know her place
