While Isabella battled the Wolf on the dance floor, Lady Beatrice was losing her own war in the corner.
She had been drinking steady glasses of scotch since noon to numb the guilt of the “tea” she fed her husband. Now, cornered by a senior board member asking about Alistair’s recovery, her facade cracked.
“He isn’t recovering,” Beatrice slurred, her voice too loud. “He’s watching. He’s always watching. The ghosts don’t leave this house, Gerald. We just drug them until they stop screaming.”
The board member took a step back, alarmed. “Lady Beatrice?”
Suddenly, Malcolm was there. He gripped his mother’s arm with a force that looked supportive but was effectively a vise.
“Mother is exhausted,” Malcolm told the board member with a terrifyingly polite smile. “The strain of the caretaking. Please, excuse us.”
He marched her out the service door into the kitchen corridor. Beatrice sagged against the wall, sobbing.
“You have to stop,” Malcolm hissed. “You are the liability now. Go to your room, or so help me God, I will put you in a clinic tonight.”