A chandelier is sparkling above an oakwood table, snakes wrought along it and flaming at the mouth. A family is gathered there, celebrating another New Year and the continued purity of their line. Their smiles are slightly strained, slightly suppositious, but then this is commonplace in the older lines. The children stay in the dining room to socialize. An older girl of about seventeen dares her younger cousin to sip some wine, her dark hair falling in waves down her back, so like her eldest sister's. Her silver eyes flashing, so like her eldest cousin's. Her younger sister laughs as her younger cousin bravely gulps down the cognac, and an outsider would never guess that two of their circle are missing. Fallen stars, whose lights were put out with the flick of a wand and a flash of fire on cloth. The adults have moved to the parlor, gathering around a fire which doesn't warm the chill in their hearts. They talk about the happenings of so-and-so, that supercilious conversation which is a necessary element of their society. The portraits hang on the walls, listening in. None show a girl who wore her hair pinned and curled, dark strands always falling out and captivating the heart of an unacceptable suitor. None show a dark-haired boy who couldn't sit still, who ran too fast and too far, and had his mother's silver eyes.