At the girl.
At the portrait above the fireplace.
At the eyes.
That he had seen before.
And now knew where.
Part 2
Nobody left the table.
That was the first thing.
Fifty years of people who always knew when to leave a room.
And not one of them moved.
The girl sat at the head of the table.
In the founder’s chair.
With the seal in front of her.
The oldest son — whose name was William — looked at it for a long time.
Then looked at her.
“Where did you get that?” he said.
“He gave it to me,” she said.
“My grandfather.”
“He’s been dead for thirty years,” William said.
“I know,” she said.
“I didn’t say he gave it to me recently.”
William looked at his siblings.
At the cousins.
At the in-laws who had married into the name.
All of them watching.
“When?” William said.
“Before I was born,” she said.
“He gave it to my mother.”
