Chapter 11

Neve

Hunger is the easiest thing in the world to hide.

Nobody can see an empty stomach. They only see what you do with your hands, your face, your fork. And I learned a long time ago exactly what to do with all three.

In Silvercrest, women ate after the men. You didn’t sit until you were told where, you didn’t reach for anything that wasn’t passed to you, and you never took the last of anything. I learned those rules the way you learn that a stove is hot.

At a quarter to seven, Lena Hollis brings up sheets and towels. She’s shorter than I remember and just as solid, her dark skin lined at the eyes now, her hair gone silver at the temples. She ran this house when I was a kid, and she runs it still, the way she runs everything: as if no one else could possibly do it right.

She sets the linens on the dresser, looks once at my dyed hair and my folded hands, and her mouth goes tight.

“Dinner’s at seven,” is all she says.

At seven, Jory wa