Eyes wide, gripping the banister rail as though it were the railing of ship in a storm, Milgrim stared down at the distant, narrow slice of marble floor, tasting his own blood. He’d bitten the inside of his cheek, when that spoon had rattled against that coffee cup. Brown’s breakfast conversation was being reflected off that marble floor, he guessed, or being sucked up this slit of Federal stairwell, or both. Had children stood here a hundred years ago, he wondered, suppressing giggles at some other conversation?