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His stare was fierce. It was written all over his face—how badly he wanted Alan to credit the statement.

“I see that.” The words felt sharp in his throat. “And I see that Claud is sick.” He hesitated. “But, Geoff, he’s not only sick.”

Geoffrey was still looking at him, mouth twisted. Alan held out the bottle, and after a moment, his brother took it and drank.

“I found something.” Geoffrey set the bottle beside the glass and rose. He went to the chair by the fireplace. A dark, ornate box sat beside the reading lamp on the side table.

“The Staunton chess set.” Alan shook his head, confused. “You’ve had it for years.”

“I never opened it.” Geoffrey approached. “Sunday, I took out the pieces. I was considering a game, with Claud.” He stopped, looking down at the box with vague accusation. “We didn’t end up playing. I went to the club instead.” Bitter lines bracketed his mouth. “I don’t show fondness easily. None was shown to me.”

The old story. Weary, Alan tilted back his head and waited.

“I found pills,” said Geoffrey, face white as bone. “Under the velvet lining. It was torn, and . . . You hid them there. Pills you were meant to take.”

Alan’s eyes felt hot. A shudder was locked inside his spine. “I hid them wherever I could. When I was alone, I’d destroy them. Not all of them, apparently. I wasn’t often alone.” His mouth had gone dry. He took the bottle and drank. “I kept the chess set by the bed. It was a convenient receptacle.”

“I asked myself why.” Geoffrey turned the box, ran his thumb over the carved mahogany. “Why hide pills? Some caprice, I decided. An early sign of your unreliability. I tried to put it out of my head. But . . .”

He looked far from decided. He looked broken open by the question he couldn’t ask.

“She gave them to me.” Alan held the bottle against his cheek.

“They sickened you.” Geoffrey’s jaw worked. Finally, he thrust the box into Alan’s chest, wrenched the bottle from his hand, and gulped.

“Get them analyzed,” Geoffrey grated. “Find out what’s in them.”

Alan opened the lid of the box and touched an ivory chess piece.

“For years,” Alan said, “I was obsessed with proving . . .” What? That he had been hurt in a knowable way. That he had a right to hate her, his mother. That he was right, to hate himself.

He sank over the box. But he felt no urge to dig to the bottom, dig down to the decades-old pills that he’d pretended to swallow, that he’d palmed or spit out.

When he lifted his head, he had the sensation that he was throwing off a weight. He met Geoffrey’s eyes.

“I wanted to dissect what happened, to pin it all down.” He waved his hand. “A postmortem pursuit.” His smile felt defenseless, its irony fled. “Now . . . I want to live.”

Geoffrey’s eyes slid away. “They’re there. If you change your mind.”

Alan nodded. “Geoffrey—thank you.”

Geoffrey gave a stiff nod in return.

Alan figured he’d say what he had to say now, lest the next chance come at fifty. “You could get a divorce, you know.”

Geoffrey choked.

“Disastrous choice, obviously. You’d be a walking scandal for a time. But perhaps . . . less of a miserable bastard.”

“Miserable bastard.” Geoffrey echoed him. He didn’t look affronted. He was staring into space. “Miserable husband. Miserable father.” He shook himself, with a slight intake of breath. “Miserable brother.”

His expression had a strange, half-fledged quality. Several emotions too new and too unfinished to identify played across his face. Helped by habit, he formed a frown. “Do you think that maid has vandalized my kitchen?”

“Nina Finch.” Alan felt his smile burst out, like the sun from behind the clouds. “No. She’s only dangerous when provoked, or when she’s chasing after her marmoset.”

Geoffrey’s frown deepened.

“Small monkey,” explained Alan. “Smells like a tannery.” He pulled a knight from the box, a stallion’s head, with an arched neck and rippling mane. Beautiful. He sighed. He returned the piece, shut the box, and rose to his feet.