Harry swallowed and nodded. “She was very old.”

“At least ninety.”

“I don’t think she was ninety.”

“She looked ninety,” Anne muttered.

Harry said nothing. He wasn’t sure what a ninety-year-old woman looked like, but Grandmère certainly had more wrinkles than anyone else of his acquaintance.

“But I’ll tell you the strangest part,” Anne said. She leaned forward. “Mother.”

Harry blinked. “What did she do?”

“Nothing. Not a thing.”

“Was she seated near to Grandmère?”

“No, that’s not what I mean. She was across and diagonal-too far away to be helpful.”

“Then-”

“She just sat there,” Anne cut in. “She did not move. Did not even start to rise.”

Harry considered this. It was, sad to say, not surprising.

“Her face did not even move. She just sat there like this.” Anne’s face assumed a decidedly blank expression, and Harry had to admit, it was precisely like their mother.

“I shall tell you something,” Anne said. “If she were to collapse in her soup in front of me, I would at the very least look surprised.” She shook her head. “They are ridiculous, the both of them. Father does nothing but drink, and Mother does nothing at all. I tell you, I cannot wait until my birthday. I don’t care if we’re supposed to be in mourning. I’m marrying William Forbush, and there is nothing either one of them can do about it.”

“I don’t think you have to worry about that,” Harry said. Mother would likely possess no opinion on the matter, and Father would be too drunk to notice.

“Hmmph. You’re probably right.” Anne’s mouth pressed together into a rueful frown, and then, in an uncharacteristic show of sibling affection, she reached out and gave his shoulder a squeeze. “You’ll be gone soon, too. Don’t worry.”

Harry nodded. He was due to leave for school in a few short weeks.

And while he felt a little guilty that he got to leave while Anne and Edward had to remain behind, this was more than drowned out by the overwhelming sense of relief that washed over him the first time he rode off to school.