Chapter 2 — The Marble Floor

Arthur came around the end of the banquet table without raising his voice.

That was what made Clara step backward.

The room was bright with candles and silver, with a turkey resting beneath a polished cloche on the serving cart, but Arthur’s shadow seemed to reach her first.

“Elena,” he said, “move aside.”

“No.”

Clara pressed herself against Elena’s legs, crumpling the little paper pouch against her red dress.

Her reindeer antlers had slipped sideways.

Elena kept one hand behind her, feeling the quick flutter of her daughter’s breath through the thin fabric.

Arthur’s tailored jacket did not wrinkle as he stopped before them.

His bowtie sat perfectly centered beneath his hard jaw.

“You have been told she is not welcome at my table.”

“She isn’t asking for your table,” Elena said.

“She came to give you a Christmas present.”

“I do not accept gifts bought with lies.”

Clara looked up at him with wet, uncertain eyes.

“I made it.”

The words were small enough that they should have disappeared beneath the crackle of the fire and the low Christmas music drifting from somewhere beyond the dining room.

Instead, they landed in the silence like something breakable.

Arthur looked down at the pouch.

Festive cutouts had been glued crookedly across its front.

One green paper tree leaned beneath a red star.

Clara had drawn a face in blue crayon near the bottom, its round smile wide and hopeful.

For one suspended moment, Elena thought he might simply turn away.

Then his mouth twisted.

“Street trash can make decorations,” Arthur said.

“That does not make it family.”

Elena’s body went still.

“Do not call her that.”

“I will call an intruder what she is.”

“She is three years old.”

“And she is not a Vance.”

Arthur reached past Elena with startling speed and caught Clara by the upper arm.

Clara squealed.

The pouch slipped against her chest.

Elena seized Arthur’s wrist, but he shook her grip away with enough force to stagger her a half step in her heels.

It was only a half step.

It was all he needed.

“Let go of me!”

Clara cried.

Arthur dragged her from behind Elena’s legs.

Clara’s red tights flashed against the white marble as she kicked helplessly for balance.

Her antler headband fell free and skidded beneath the nearest chair.

“Arthur.”

Elena’s voice came low and dangerous.

“Put her down.”

He did not look at her.

His fingers remained locked around Clara’s arm as if she were an offending object someone had set in his path.

Clara’s face had folded in on itself.

“Mommy, I made it for Grandpa.”

The handmade pouch trembled in her clenched fist.

Arthur bent close enough that Clara could smell the sharp, expensive scent of his cologne.

“Don’t dirty our chair,” he said.

“The floor is where you belong.”

He released her with a shove.

Clara struck the marble on her side with a dull, terrible sound.

The pouch flew from her hand, then bounced once near the legs of the serving cart.

Her sob came after the impact, shocked and high, and it cut through Elena more cleanly than any blade.

For a second, nobody moved.

Arthur stood over the child, breathing hard through his nose.

The banquet table gleamed behind him, set for a family celebration he had just made monstrous.

Candlelight quivered across the floor around Clara’s small body.

Elena dropped to one knee, but Clara had curled toward herself, one hand clamped over the place where she had landed.

Tears streaked her cheeks.

“Mommy,” she gasped.

“I’m here.”

Elena reached for her, checking without thinking: shoulder, ribs, hip, head.

Clara flinched at the touch near her elbow but did not cry out again.

Elena gathered her close before the cold stone could take any more from her.

Arthur watched with a contempt that had become almost ceremonial.

“Take your child and get out of my house.”

Elena lifted her gaze over Clara’s blond head.

Her face had gone so calm that Arthur’s expression shifted, just slightly.

“You put your hands on her,” Elena said.

“I removed a trespasser.”

“You threw a child onto marble.”

“I will not be lectured by a woman who arrives after years of silence and expects a seat at my table.”

“I expected you to look at her.”

Elena held Clara tighter as the girl buried her face in Elena’s shoulder.

“That was all.”

Arthur glanced toward the door.

“There is nothing to look at.”

Clara’s fingers found Elena’s silver brooch and gripped it.

Her sobs had become little broken pulls of breath.

Elena felt each one as a demand she could not postpone, could not forgive away for the sake of peace.

Arthur straightened his cuffs.

“You have chosen your exit.”

“No,” Elena said.

“You chose this.”

His eyes narrowed.

“Do not threaten me in my own home.”

“I haven’t threatened you.”

Not yet, she thought.

Arthur turned toward the dining room entrance and raised his voice.

“Security.”

The word rang through the blue-walled room.

Beyond the doorway, something shifted in the hall: the weighty approach of footsteps, measured and immediate.

Clara lifted her tear-stained face.

“Mommy, are we going outside?”

Elena rose with her daughter in both arms.

Her heels found purchase on the marble.

She kept Clara’s face tucked against her neck and fixed her eyes on the open doorway as the footsteps came closer.

“No, baby,” Elena said, though her voice was meant for Arthur.

“Nobody is putting us anywhere.”