I wake with a pit in my stomach. I wish I could yank up my quilts and hide from the day, but the morning doesn’t know to mourn. The winter sun smiles over my view of the kitchen garden. Hannibal struts the fence, sounding his imperious crow. Aunt Clara’s clipped holly bushes are interspersed with hellebores, all blooming in obedient array.

I’ll bring Quinn some flowers. An innocent excuse to pay him a not-so-innocent visit, but I need to hear him say it out loud. Of the two brothers, Quinn was more often the subject of Toby’s and my whispered confidences. We were cowed by his coolly impeccable demeanor and hurt by his ice-pick wit. Will was easier either warmly, sweetly happy or in a hot temper. Nothing in between, nothing to hide.

“Even if Quinn thinks we’re low and unschooled,” Toby once declared, “I wish he’d do a better job of pretending he didn’t.” As we got older, we avoided our cousin rather than shrivel under his scorn.

Quinn’s bedroom door is shut. I hesitate as my eyes land on a photograph hanging in the corridor. It had been commissioned of the brothers last spring, and in their summer suits they make quite a pair. Aunt enjoyed celebrating her handsome sons, both of whom she swore had the Emory chin, the Emory nose if pressed, she would avow that Quinn and Will possessed the Emory everything, with Uncle Henry offering scant more than his surname.

I tap. And then again. Even when I creak open the door, Quinn doesn’t turn. He lies in bed like a prince on his tomb. His bandages are an unwieldy crown. But he’s awake. I jump to hear him speak my name.