The heavy bronze candlestick was only inches away from the old woman’s head when the front door swung open.

Mrs. Gable looked down at Clara, her tears breaking free and rolling down her cheeks, soaking into the knitted wool of her shawl.

She released her grip, letting the worn paper slide safely into Clara’s hands.

“Arthur can rest now,” the old woman sobbed, burying her face against Clara’s shoulder.

“Yes, he can,” Clara answered, holding her steady.

The ballroom music had completely ceased; in its place, the frantic murmur of hundreds of high-society guests filled the corridors as they were herded toward the exits by state troopers.

Photographers who had waited behind velvet stanchions for pictures of the elite were now flashing blinding strobes into the windows, capturing Julian and Vanessa Vale being marched out in handcuffs.

Clara stood up and draped her own woolen coat over Mrs. Gable’s thin shoulders.

She looked down at the heavy bronze candlestick lying near the ashes of the hearth.

It was just an object, cold and hollow, stripped of the terror it had held only moments before.

Clara guided Mrs. Gable out into the hall, leaving the glittering ruins of the Vale dynasty behind them in the smoke and the flashing red lights.