witches and thinking it is the end of the world if there is a solar eclipse. I don’t know how you can be so gullible.”
Mallory opened his mouth.
“Tryphena …” Vita interrupted, leaning forward.
“When I wanted to wear bloomers to ride a bicycle,” Tryphena went on regardless, “because it would be very practical, Papa nearly had an apoplexy.”
She waved her hand, only just missing her glass of water.
“But nobody thinks it the least bit odd if you all dress up in long skirts with beads around your neck and sing songs together and drink something you say turns from wine into blood, which sounds absolutely disgusting, not to mention blasphemous. And yet you think cannibals are savages who ought to be—”
Mallory drew in his breath.
“Tryphena! That is enough!” Vita said sharply. She turned to Ramsay, her face creased with irritation. “For goodness sake, say something to her. Defend yourself!”
“I thought it was Mallory she was attacking,” Ramsay observed mildly. “The doctrine of the transubstantiation of the host is a Roman belief.”
“Then what do you do it for?” Tryphena countered. “You must believe it is something. Or why dress up in embroidered clothes and go through the whole performance?”
Ramsay looked at her sadly but said nothing.
“It is a reminder of who you are and the promises you have made,” Dominic said to her as patiently as he could. “And unfortunately we do need reminding.”
“Then it wouldn’t matter if it were bread and wine or biscuits and milk,” she challenged, her eyes bright and victorious.
“Not in the slightest,” he agreed with a smile. “If you meant what you said and came with the right spirit. Far more important you come without anger or guile.”
She was flushed. The triumph was slipping away from her. “Unity said it was just extremely good theater, designed to impress everyone and keep them obedient and in awe of you,” she argued, as if quoting Unity proved something. “It is all show and no substance. It is the desire for power on your part, and superstition on theirs. It makes them feel comfortable if they confess their sins and you forgive them; then they can start over again. And if they don’t, then they live in terror of you.”
“Unity was a fool!” Mallory said sharply. “And a blasphemer.”
Tryphena swung around to face him. “Well, I didn’t notice you saying that to her when she was alive. You’re suddenly very brave now she’s not here anymore and can’t reply for herself.” Her scorn was devastating. “You were quick enough then to do as she asked you. And I don’t recall your ever contradicting her in public in that tone of voice. What conviction you’ve suddenly developed, and fire to defend your faith.”
Mallory’s face was white and his eyes hot and defensive. “There was no point in arguing with Unity,” he said with a very slight tremor in his voice. “She never listened to anyone because her mind was made up before you began.”
“Isn’t yours?” Tryphena countered, glaring at him across the white linen and the glass and the dishes.
“Of course it is!” His eyebrows rose. “Mine is a matter of faith. That is quite different.”
Tryphena slammed down her fork. She was fortunate not to chip her plate.
“Why does everyone presume that their own belief is based on some virtuous thing like faith, which is all praiseworthy, and Unity’s belief is wicked and insincere and based on emotion or ignorance? You are so self-righteous it is sickening … and absurd. If you could see yourselves from the outside you’d laugh.” She threw the words at them, her face twisted with fury and knowledge of her own helplessness. “You’d think you were a parody. Except you’re too cruel to be funny. And you win! That’s the unbearable part of it. You win! There’s superstition and oppression and ignorance everywhere, and catastrophic injustice.” She stood up, glaring at them with tears in her eyes. “You all sit here eating your dinner, and Unity is lying on a cold table in a shroud, waiting to be buried. You’ll all dress up—”
“Tryphena!” Vita protested, and was ignored. She turned to Ramsay desperately, but he did nothing.
“… in your gorgeous gowns and robes,” Tryphena went on, her voice choking, “and play the organ and sing your songs and intone prayers over her. Why can’t you speak in a proper voice?” She stared at her father challengingly. “How can you speak like that if you really mean a thing you say? You’ll carry on like a bad