The invitation came on card thick enough to cut yourself on.
Gold lettering. The wedding of Alaric Branmoor and Clementine Hale, daughter of a senator, at the house on Lake Averil.
I stood at the window of my flat in Marrowgate and turned it over about four times.
Alaric signed our divorce in 2020 without once looking up from the page, while his mother stood behind him with her coat already on.
“Mama, who’s getting married?”
Linus had hold of my jumper. Behind him Gus and Ivo were building something out of sofa cushions and arguing about it.
Four. Five in the February.
