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“You made breakfast. You drank coffee and took one strawberry from your son’s plate.”

Vera looks at her. “Were you counting?”

“I manage this house. I count.”

I reach for my glass, but Mrs. Wentworth places her hand over it.

“No.”

I glance at the clock. “It’s morning.”

“That makes it worse.” She turns to Vera and presses a cracker into her hand. “Eat.”

“I’m a doctor.”

“Then this shouldn’t require an explanation.”

Vera glares at her, bites into the cracker, and chews while Mrs. Wentworth pours the tea.

“Another,” Mrs. Wentworth says.

Vera takes a second cracker with the expression of a woman accepting a personal insult.

Mrs. Wentworth waits until she swallows. “I’ll take you back to your suite.”

“No.” Vera sets down the cup. “My home burned, Marina is dead, and someone used the hospital to reach my child. I’m staying.”

“You need sleep.”

“I need facts.”

Mrs. Wentworth studies her for a moment, then straightens the tray. “I’ll keep Misha in the playroom. Sergei will remain outside, and Lidiya will stay with the children.”

Vera’s shoulders lower slightly. “He hates bananas unless they’re mashed into yogurt. He likes toast strips, chicken, and apple slices.”

“Jam?”

“He’ll eat the jar if anyone lets him.”

“I suspected that. Does he nap?”

“Only when sleep attacks from behind.”

“Then we’ll watch for an ambush.” Mrs. Wentworth straightens and walks out.

I lift my glass.

“She told you no,” Vera says.

“She manages the house. She doesn’t manage despair.”

I cross to the window and light a cigarette.

“You had chest surgery.”

“You’re still diagnosing me.”

“I can grieve and recognize stupidity at the same time.” She takes the cigarette from my fingers and crushes it into the ashtray.