Augusta Sterling, the true matriarch of the family, Alex’s grandmother, a woman whose name was whispered with a mixture of terror and reverence in the highest circles of society, slowly rose to her feet. She was a formidable woman in her late eighties, dressed in a simple but exquisitely tailored black dress, her white hair swept up in an elegant chignon. She radiated an authority so absolute, so ingrained, that it made Brenda’s performative power look like a childish tantrum.

She said nothing. She simply raised one elegantly gnarled finger, and a young waiter, as if pulled by an invisible string, rushed to her side, his face a mask of nervous deference.

“Bring me,” she commanded, her voice a low, gravelly whisper that nonetheless seemed to slice through the tension and fill the entire room, “a pair of white silk service gloves.”