Part 7
Mrs. Bellweather stopped.
Margaret took one step.
Then another.
The linen of her skirt moved around her knees. Her left leg felt stable enough. The cane waited beside the service table, its silver handle catching a line of sunlight.
Camille posed again beside Julian.
The photographer lifted his camera.
Margaret crossed half the distance.
A server emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray of glasses. He did not see her until the last moment and shifted left. Margaret shifted right. Neither collision happened, but the correction sent a jolt through her hip.
Her breath caught.
The pool’s stone rim was beside her. She reached toward it for support and placed her fingertips against the warm surface.
One of the floating gardenias had drifted against the return vent and folded beneath the current. Without thinking, Margaret leaned to lift it free.
Behind her, Camille laughed.
Not loudly. It was a private sound meant for Celeste.
“She cannot leave anything alone,” Camille murmured.
Margaret heard.
She straightened too fast.
Her left leg failed to settle beneath her.
She reached for the cane that should have been in her hand and found only air.
The pool took her weight.
Water rose around her as the guests turned in silence.
Now Julian came down the staircase.
The entire courtyard seemed to contract around the sound of his shoes on stone.
Camille looked up and saw him.
For a moment, relief crossed her face. It was the relief of someone who believed authority had arrived on her side.
Margaret remained in the water, one palm gripping the rim. Her shoulder throbbed. Cold fabric clung to her waist and legs. A gardenia rested against her wrist, its white petals already bruising translucent at the edges.
Julian reached the final step.
Lena stood near the staircase with her tablet held against her beige jacket. She had returned from the kitchen in time to see Margaret fall but not in time to prevent it. Her face had gone pale beneath her professional composure.
“Get towels,” she told a server.
Then she stepped aside.
Julian crossed the courtyard.
He did not look at Camille first.
He knelt beside the pool, one knee touching the wet stone. His dark tie fell forward, and he pushed it aside without noticing.
“Grand—”
Margaret’s eyes stopped him.
Not yet.
The guests were listening. Camille was watching. Margaret did not want the truth shouted like a weapon before she could stand on her own feet.
Julian understood the look, though anger tightened the muscles along his jaw.
He reached both hands toward her.
“Can you put weight on your left leg?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“No. Help me anyway.”
His mouth moved slightly, almost a smile, but the expression disappeared when he saw the red mark forming near her shoulder.
He placed one hand beneath her forearm and the other around her upper back. Margaret pushed against the pool’s edge. Water poured from her sleeves. Her shoe slid once beneath the surface, and Julian tightened his grip without pulling hard enough to unbalance her.
“Slowly,” he said.
“I know how standing works.”
“Humor me.”
“You have never been humorous.”
Her breath shook at the end of the sentence.
Julian heard it.
He waited until she had both feet beneath her, then helped her step over the low rim. Water spilled onto the limestone and spread around his polished shoes.
A server arrived with folded towels. Julian took one and wrapped it around Margaret’s shoulders. She disliked the gesture until the first shiver moved through her. Then she held the towel closed at her throat.
The guests remained several feet away.
No one seemed certain whether helping now would look compassionate or merely late.
Camille approached.
Her face was carefully concerned.
“That was awful,” she said. “I am so sorry you fell.”
Julian looked at her for the first time.
The anger in his face did not rise. It withdrew.
Camille seemed not to recognize the danger in that.
“She was leaning over the water,” she continued. “I told her the flowers had already been arranged, but she insisted on interfering.”
Julian turned back to Margaret.
He checked her shoulder without touching the bruise.
“What happened?”
The question was quiet.
It did not ask only how she had fallen. Margaret heard the older question beneath it. Why are you in the water? Why is your cane across the courtyard? Why did a room full of people watch?
Her hands had begun trembling again. She hated that Julian could see them.
He noticed and said nothing.
Margaret looked at Camille.
The young woman stood with her shoulders back, emerald fabric immaculate, one diamond resting at the hollow of her throat. Her expression held sympathy for the benefit of the guests and warning for the woman wrapped in a towel.
Margaret could have made the accusation theatrical.
She could have used her name, her history, and the ownership of every stone around them. She could have turned the witnesses against Camille before Julian asked another question.
Instead, she looked down at the water dripping from the hem of her dress.
“She took my cane,” Margaret said.
The statement landed without force.
That made it harder to avoid.
Camille’s brows drew together. “I moved it because it was becoming a hazard.”
Margaret continued as if she had not spoken.
“I asked her to return it.”
Her voice shook once. She paused until it steadied.
“She would not.”
Julian glanced toward the service table.
The dark wooden cane lay beside it.
Margaret followed his eyes. “She said I could have it after the photographs.”
“That is not what happened,” Camille said.
Julian still did not look at her.
Margaret’s fingers tightened around the towel. “She mocked me for correcting the flowers. Then she moved the cane farther away. I tried to reach it.”
Camille gave a small, incredulous laugh.
“I did not mock you.”
Margaret raised her eyes.
May you like
“You said I could not leave anything alone.”
“I was speaking to Celeste.”
