The word came out steady.
It was the only thing he had left that was steady — the answer to that question, which he was giving with full knowledge that the truth of it was more complicated than the word, that the answer to 'does she own mother' was not 'no' but was something he did not have a word for yet, something that lived in the space between 'no' and 'I don't know anymore.'
He said 'no' anyway.
Because his son was eight years old.
Because the bun was almost gone.
Because the road was full of people waving flowers at a carriage that hadn't arrived yet.
The carriage.
It came from the north road — the approach from the Westing mansion, the good road, the one that had apparently been recently repaired, the wheels rolling smooth and even on the new gravel. Open-topped. The formal carriage with the high sides and the platform at the back that allowed passengers to stand and be visible.
The crowd noise rose.
"There she is—"
"Long live the Viscountess—!"
