She said, “Please. Let me see my son. Let Lancelot fly down to me.” Capitulation. Mathilde waited, savoring. Antoinette sighed, and in the sigh there was irritation, superiority, and Mathilde hung up without speaking. Lotto called down from his study upstairs, where he was working, “Who was that?” And Mathilde called up the stairs, “Wrong number.” “At this hour of the night?” he said. “People are the worst.” Wrong number. She served herself a bourbon. She drank it in the bathroom mirror, watching the flush fade from her face, her eyes sizzling, all pupil. But then a curious feeling came over
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