Mrs. Blocken glided over to Bree’s side and circled her several times. “Perfect, perfect.” Olivia joined her. “I told you this color would be perfect, Olivia. The ladies will be like golden stars adorning you,” Mrs. Blocken said.

From my seat on the floral printed sofa, I gagged. O.M. straddled the threshold of the open French doors that led into the backyard. Her face encompassed all the horror I felt. It gave me small comfort.

“Olga,” her mother called. “Try on your gown.”

O.M. backed outside onto the patio.

Mrs. Blocken looked up in disgust. “Olga, now.”

O.M. shook her head.

Mrs. Blocken marched over to her daughter. “Young lady, you will do as you’re told.”

The doorbell rang, playing Für Elise. Happy for an excuse to exit the room, I offered to answer it. To my dismay, I opened the door to my brother’s eager face. His blond hair was sticking up in all directions, his beard was unruly and in desperate need of combing, and his T-shirt hung crookedly on his thin shoulders—sure signs that he’d been up at ungodly hours with mathematical equations, theorems, and other things I hoped never to understand. Mark looked just as startled to see me as I was to see him.

“India?” He adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses on the bridge of his nose. “What are you doing here?”

“Mark, this isn’t a good time. I’ll talk to you later.” I started to close the door.

He began nodding, then, “Hey, I didn’t come here to see you. I have to speak to Olivia. It’s urgent.”

“Not now. I’ll tell her you’d like to talk her. Now, please leave.”

The conversation from the living room moved closer.

“India, who’s at the door?” Olivia called.