Chapter 4: The Glass of Water

Ronan took the photograph out of the clip and held it by the edges.

"Who took this?" he asked.

"Chester," I said.

"Did you know?"

"I thought he was wiping my cheek."

Ronan did not say anything.

He handed the photograph to me, and he sent the tattooist to his uncle's study to sign a statement.

"Keep it," he said. "You will want it Thursday."

My room was on the second floor, at the end of the hall, with a window over the harbor.

Ronan checked every lock before he let me in.

He did not touch me once.

I had been counting.

I put the rifle case on the bed and sat beside it with the photograph in my hand.

All spring he had carried that picture in his coat.

He had smiled at me across every dinner with it there.

I did not cry.

I took the photograph apart with my thumbnail, one corner at a time, until I had a small neat pile of glossy paper.

At eleven there was a knock.

"Visitor," Ronan said through the door. "Your sister. Sean sent her."

Savannah came in with a tray.

She had washed her face, and she had put on a pink silk robe.

Her eyes were puffy.

Two guards stood in the doorway behind her, and so did Ronan.

"Papa wants us to make peace," she said, in a small voice. "I was awful. I'm sorry."

She set the tray on the nightstand.

On it were two tall glasses of water with lemon.

"I brought us each one," she said. "Drink with me, sister. Please."

She smiled.

She was good at the smile.

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