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to feed herself, could she?
    She doubled her portion, paused, then doubled it again. The footman drifted away at last, with a nod from Martin. The green beans joined the chicken in a marvelous heap, and Joan tucked in with far less restraint than she had been practicing. Martin gave a pleased grunt, drawing a skeptical look from his sister. He seemed at ease for the first time, if only in the stiffer, military sense of the word.
    Elinor had a delicate way of eating, her wrists gracefully poised, her fingers arranged just so on the cutlery. Joan’s father would have been proud. Joan tried to mimic the gestures, her own elegance roughened by months of disuse. She chattered a few moments longer, and was relieved when Elinor took the next moment of silence to switch her attention to her brother.
    â€œWhat is this business you have to attend to?” Elinor asked him.
    â€œI’m sorry?”
    â€œThe business. The reason you can’t join us. What is it?”
    â€œTerribly dull, mostly,” Martin said, and promptly took a bite of chicken roulade. A bit large for polite company. He was dodging the question, Joan realized. He wasn’t very good at it. Elinor had noticed, too, and her lips thinned with no trace of amusement.
    â€œReally, Martin, if you don’t tell me, I shall be forced to find out on my own, and you know I can. Why delay the inevitable?”
    Martin had swallowed, removing his best defense against the need to answer. He opened his mouth; Joan recognized the look of one concocting a lie—and botching it before uttering a syllable. She couldn’t decide whether it was painful, or merely entertaining. It was marvelous, sitting here, being part of their familiar back and forth, however peripherally.
    A crash sounded behind her.
    Joan was on her feet and halfway around the table before she registered the flash of silver, the tray toppling from the footman’s hands, his stoop to catch it. She fetched up against the wall, her mouth suddenly dry and her breath lodged in her throat. She’d spilled her drink. Her hand was wet, dripping dark wine. She held it out, fingers half-curled. They were all staring at her.
    â€œI-I’m sorry,” she said, her stutter unfeigned.
    Martin rose. She tried to school herself to calm, to stitch a smile across her face, but her hands were shaking and she couldn’t get a full breath. She could almost hear the scrape of chains, smell the hot, whiskey-thick breath of the mad doctor—
    â€œThere is nothing to apologize for,” Martin said. He drew close, slowly, his movements deliberate. As if approaching a hurt animal. She gave a convulsive laugh,swallowed it. Her emotions didn’t seem her own—they lurched to and fro and she couldn’t get hold of them, couldn’t get hold of herself. She shut her eyes, wrenching herself back to center.
Control yourself and you control the situation,
her father said in her mind.
    â€œIt’s all right,” Martin said. He drew a handkerchief from his pocket and caught her hand, gingerly sponging the wine from it. His touch was painfully soft. “Take a deep breath. No one will hurt you here.”
    Elinor watched in stillness and silence, compassion making her features all the more beautiful. The footmen, one more red-faced than the other, were gathering up the mess under the baleful gaze of the butler.
    The handkerchief moved rhythmically over her fingers, catching every stray drop. “You’ll ruin it,” she noted.
    â€œI have dozens,” he assured her. He finished, but kept his free hand beneath hers, not quite holding it. She felt as if it were the only thing keeping her upright. “Better?” he asked.
    Her heartbeat had slowed and her breath came easily. She was not in Bedlam; she was not trapped, not bound, not subject to the whims of the mad doctors.
That cannot happen again
, she told herself, and fixed the thought in her