Chapter 1

The crack of Dorothy's palm against Wren's cheek stopped the reception hall mid-sentence.

Wren's head snapped to the right, the force of it rocking her on her heels. A sting bloomed across her jaw, hot and sharp, and she tasted the faint copper of her own lip where her teeth had caught it. The room around her — the warm chandelier light, the plum and cream walls, the gold trim catching every lamp — seemed to hold its breath. Crystal glasses stopped mid-lift. Conversations died in open mouths. The long carved reception table with its crystal punch bowl sat between her and the tall windows, and for one long second, nobody in the Halloway estate moved at all.

"Theo's name was on my tongue and you said not to speak it," Dorothy said, her voice cracking high and loud enough for the back of the room to hear. Her gold bangles rang as her hand dropped back to her side. "You brought this shame here. Into my home. Into your father's memory."

Wren lifted her chin slowly. Her hand stayed at her side, fingers loose, though her jaw throbbed where the rings had caught. She did not raise a hand to her face. She did not step back. Behind her, the guests who had been laughing at something near the punch bowl now stood frozen, none of them meeting her eyes, all of them watching.

"I didn't bring him," Wren said, low and level, the rasp in her voice barely carrying. "He's been here for an hour. You saw him arrive."

Dorothy's face colored. The platinum bob with its blue streak caught the light as she turned, presenting her profile to the room, one hand pressing to her chest in a gesture that wanted to look wounded. "An hour. An hour, and you think that makes it acceptable? That child — that —" She searched for the word, and the room leaned in to hear it. "That child has no place in this family. I've said it from the day your brother brought him home, and I will say it until someone in this house has the sense to agree with me."

A small sound came from the left, near the tall window.

Wren's eyes cut to it. Theo sat in the padded chair by the window, small for his four years, his red hoodie pooling around him like a tent, his blue shorts and white sneakers barely reaching the floor. His short black curls framed a face that was perfectly still, perfectly watchful. His hands gripped the armrests, knuckles pale, and he was looking at Wren with the kind of quiet attention that children learn when they've learned not to make noise.

He did not cry out. He did not say her name. But his mouth opened, just a fraction, and closed again.

Dorothy followed Wren's gaze and made a sound of disgust. "There. You see? He doesn't even speak. Does he speak, Wren? Does that child have a voice, or does he just sit there like a —"

"Don't," Wren said.