Edith raised her glass. Their plates were still in front of them, streaked with gravy and scattered with bits of meat. Her face was flushed, and there was happiness on it. “I would like to say to Henry—congratulations. This year you published your book, fearlessly, on a subject no one has dared come near before. And it has succeeded, has been praised and has sold—in spite of the naysayers, of whom I’m sorry to admit I was one.” She searched out his eye, the glass still held up. “I should not have doubted you. Merry Christmas. To Henry.” “Henry,” Angelica echoed. Tears crept at the corners of
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