When she finally got home long after midnight, Antonin was sitting on the sofa in their lounge with a half-empty bottle of fire whiskey. Based on the glassy expression in his eyes, he'd been drinking for awhile. She never could figure out what time he sent the guests home. He wouldn't talk about it again. Not after they'd had a blazing row that woke their son up from a sound sleep. It was difficult to get the distraught three year old back to sleep. Antonin was much better at it than she was, so she let him do it. She could vaguely remember knocking back two vials of her potion before climbing into the bathtub.