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The Sèvres vase goes into the box first. I watch the mover's thick fingers wrap around the delicate porcelain—eighteenth century, hand-painted, worth more than his annual salary—and I have to physically stop myself from lunging across the foyer to snatch it from his grip. "Careful with that," I say instead. Controlled. The voice my mother spent eighteen years drilling into me before the cancer took her. A Davenport never raises her voice, darling. We simply lower the temperature of the room. The mover grunts, doesn't even look at me, and drops the vase into a nest of bubble wrap with all the reverence of a man tossing dirty laundry into a hamper. I dig my nails into my palms until the pain grounds me. This is fine. This is all fine. The grandfather clock in the corner—the one my great-grandmother shipped from Vienna in 1892—chimes eleven. Two movers wrestle it onto a dolly, and I watch a chunk of ornate woodwork crack against the doorframe. "That's an antique," I snap. "Lady, everything in here's an antique." The foreman doesn't bother hiding his smirk. "Bank's orders. We pack it, we move it, we don't get paid to be gentle." I want to tell him that this grandfather clock survived two world wars. That my grandmother used to hide love letters in its base. That my mother would lift me up as a child so I could watch the tiny golden dancers spin when it struck noon. But I don't. Because the Davenport name means nothing now, and the man wearing a cheap polyester polo has more power in this house than I do.