The Hitler house stood on a hill above the northern road, behind iron gates and a long avenue of clipped yews.
Silveria had lived in it for eighteen years. She had scrubbed its floors, polished its silver, and eaten her dinners in its kitchen, standing up. She knew every creaking stair. She knew which door slammed in the wind and which window in the attic stuck in summer.
She had never once come up that drive in the front seat of a car.
"You don't have to go in," Damien said quietly. "You can wait with Felix."
"I want to."
"Silveria."
"I want to see their faces." Her voice was calm, though her hands were cold. A bandage covered her lip, and Rosa's ointment stung her cheek. "They've told me who I am my whole life. I'd like to hear them say it with the truth in the room."
He looked at her for a long moment. Then he nodded, once, and got out and opened her door.
