Two days of steady work passed before the message arrived.

It was formal, the kind my parents still preferred. They wanted me at the house that afternoon. Not a request. I finished the section of the canvas I was working on, washed the paint from my hands, and went.

The Angelov house looked exactly as it always had-manicured, impressive, indifferent. My mother received me in the sitting room she used for conversations that needed to stay controlled. My father stood near the window with a drink he did not touch.

"You asked for me," I said.

My mother gestured to the chair across from her. "We need to discuss appearances....