"One," she said, "was when she brought the box with the old pictures. Two was when she was crying and I heard it through the floor. And three was the princess night." She held up the three fingers triumphantly. "Three."
"Ivy," Matt said.
"What?" She looked at him, and then at Renée, and something in the air of the room finally reached her. Children were not stupid. They were only new. Renée watched the knowledge arrive on her daughter's face, a faint clouding, a small uncertain crease between the brows. Ivy lowered her hand. "Was it a secret?"
"No, baby," Renée said, before Matt could answer. "No. It's not a secret."
She stood up. Her knees had gone stiff from sitting so long on the rug, and she was surprised to find that her legs held her. She crossed to Ivy and crouched in front of her, so that they were eye to eye, and she took the silver heel gently out of her daughter's hand and set it on the floor, standing upright, as if someone invisible had just stepped out of it.
"Where did you find these pretty things?"
"In the Christmas box." Ivy pointed toward the corner by the stairs, where Matt had stacked the plastic storage bins he'd carried up from the basement that afternoon. One of them sat open, its lid askew, a coil of garland spilling over the rim. "The one with the lights. There was a bag at the bottom. A gift bag with reindeer. I thought it was a present." She looked worried. "I didn't open any real presents. I promise. It wasn't wrapped."
"I know. That's okay."
"I thought maybe it was a costume. For the pageant."
"It's not a costume," Renée said. "But you look very beautiful in it."
Behind her she could hear Matt getting out of the recliner. The footrest went down with a clunk. She did not turn around.