The nursery went so quiet it made your skin prickle.
A second earlier, Peter and Paul had been screaming with the full-body terror that had driven twelve nannies out of your house and turned every hallway into a place you dreaded after sunset. They had been red-faced, rigid, furious little creatures trapped in two white cribs under a painted ceiling of clouds, crying so hard their tiny chests seemed to seize between breaths. Then Helen stepped over the threshold, looked toward the darkest corner of the room, and the crying stopped as if somebody had cut a wire.
Your housekeeper crossed herself.
You did not realize you had stopped breathing until your lungs hurt.
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