VALENTINE
I worked through the argument I had with my wife before the crack of dawn in the hollow quiet of the house, replaying her words like a curse I couldn't shake.
She had been packing when I found her. Not the slow, methodical packing of someone planning a trip. The sharp, decisive movements of someone who had already made up their mind.
"I'm sick of this," she had said, folding one of Wilhelm's shirts with more force than necessary.
I had stood in the doorway, watching her. "Sick of what?"
"This." She gestured broadly, encompassing the room, the house, and me. "Something is happening to this family, Valentine, and it's because of you."
I had tried to keep my voice steady. "Madeline made her choice."
She had whirled on me then, eyes blazing. "No. Madeline loved this family. She loved us. She loved her magic."
"Then why did she leave?"
