The room fell completely silent except for the crackle of the small fire in the grate.

Margaret looked at Lily, who was peering out from the blanket with wide, dark eyes.

For a brief second, I saw a flicker of something human in the old woman’s face.

Then it was gone, replaced by the cold stone of her usual expression.

She reached for the telephone on her desk and dialed a three-digit extension.

“Get me the wire desk at the private bank,” she said into the receiver.

We waited in the silence of the library while she held.

The green light of her desk lamp cast long, sickly shadows across the Persian rug.

“This is Margaret Whitmore,” she said after a moment. “I need a freeze placed on the development fund immediately.”

She listened for several seconds, her lips pressing into a thin, hard line.

“What do you mean, the transfer is already pending?” she asked.

Her voice did not rise, but the ice in it was unmistakable.

“Under whose authority?” she demanded.

She listened again, her fingers tightening around the black plastic receiver.