Emily awoke in the night. The light from a waxing gibbous moon was bright through her window and touched the edges of things, making the world appear as if it were made of marble. She had been having a hideous dream—a loud storm—Stella crying out for her, afraid. Emily could not find her. "Mother, Mother!" came Stella's little voice, but Emily could not find her. And then Dean's voice, as familiar to her as the sound of her own heart: "Where is my daughter, Emily? What have you done with her?"

The anger in his voice—the coldness of it—had pulled her up and out of sleep.

She fumbled for the matches and lit the taper on the table by her bed. Three o'clock, by the little, cheerful-ticking brass alarm clock. Wouldn't you know it? Oh, three o'clock! That horrid song from the film she and Gus Rankin had seen tonight still rang in her ears. Emily closed her eyes but it was futile—sleep would not come again that night. Well, she might make the most of her wakefulness. She got up and found her wrapper, and sat down at her writing desk.

For the past month she had been working on a story that threatened to become something else. One of Stella's pictures had set it off—one of her 'dream pictures'—images plucked out of her head and set down on paper. Made from dreams! A misty scene of a street vendor in Paris, a grizzled old man, leaning down to whisper in a young girl's ear. It had reminded Emily of a story she had written very long ago. A Seller of Dreams. It had been drivel, she knew that now, but there had been flashes of something in it. And she had destroyed it because Dean had told her to. Well, not in so many words. But it was gone, and she had never hoped of getting it back again.

And yet the story came to her again and whispered around her ears, needing to be put down onto paper. And so she wrote it again. Not the same story—she could not bear to revive her old characters. They had been real to her, and their loss had seemed like a death. If she brought them back to life they would be ghosts, pale imitations of what they should have been.

Instead, she used the same premise, but the characters were new. The 'seller of dreams'—a gypsyish man; a woman with a lost love; a rich man, looking to increase his fortune; an orphaned girl looking for someone to love her. Emily wrote so much and so fast that the book was already nearing completion. She wove the stories of the Gypsy and Marie and Quincy and Little Julia together with such deft finesse that it startled her. She had forgotten she could write like this. It was not her lost book—not crackling with the same energy—but it was a good book, stronger. Perhaps better than the original had been.

But tonight the words would not come. Emily could not figure out a way to bring them all together in a happy ending. Her characters would persist in doing things without her consent! She threw her pen down in disgust and chewed her lower lip. It seemed a long time until morning. She gazed at the flame of her candle until the room shimmered in a haze. She pulled a fresh page toward her and wrote. Oh, Teddy…

She wrote and wrote for what seemed like ages. She wrote an explanation. Not an excuse. An apology, though. A bittersweet portrait of her heart, in words. The regret that was there. The regret that wasn't. But the love that had always been, would always be. Emily read it over and felt tears pricking at her eyes. She picked up her pen again and inked another line.

Teddy, I know this may be, as Aunt Elizabeth says, 'Too little, too late,' but if there is any hope, please won't you come to me? At any time—I will always be waiting. I will always be hoping for you.

Her candle had burnt nearly out but Emily still felt the trance that it had inspired over her. She folded the paper in thirds, jammed it into her wrapper pocket, stepped into her shoes, and went for the stairs.

The sky was dark and the stars overhead seemed to hang down like jewels, suspaended at the ears and throat of a lovely, moon-pale woman. As she walked, Emily picked out Vega—Vega of the Lyre. Her breath caught in her throat.

The Tansy Patch was dark and she hesitated a little when she saw it. She was not even sure Teddy was here. Oh, she should go back! What if some respectable couple lived here now? She imagined a matronly woman kneeling down to find the paper, slid under the door, reading it? Whatever sense of modesty lingered in Emily's soul started squalling at the idea, but she quashed it. Who cared what anybody thought, when such things as happiness and destiny were at stake? Besides, she had not signed her note. Teddy—if he was here—would know who had wrote it.

She climbed the porch-steps and crouched at the door. She took the letter from her pocket and kissed it, feeling a little foolish. She laughed a little, and slid the letter under the door.

Walking back to New Moon, Emily Priest felt more like Emily Starr than she had in ages.

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In August, the light in the New Moon hayloft was incomparable. Bright and thick and golden. Stella had never seen anything like it, and was mesmerized by its beauty—at the same time, she could not bring herself to pick up her paintbrush and try to capture it. She had not touched her sketchbook in weeks. She could not bear it. Every time she did she came face to face with the desecration of Father's dear portrait—torn in two by Flora Norris's grubby hands. She could not bring herself to return to the Tansy Patch, not even for a dollar a week. She could not trust herself to be around Flora Norris without wanting to strangle her for what she'd done. She went desolately to Mr. Frederick's on the days that Flora was not there. The portrait was coming along nicely; so nicely that it made bile rise up in Stella's throat. Mr. Frederick caught her looking at the painting and came and stood beside her.

"What do you think, Little Star?"

"You've flattered her," Stella said, bluntly.

Mr. Frederick looked at her kindly. "Of course I have," he said. "Mrs. Norris wouldn't pay me if I gave Flora a hawk nose—or thick wrists—or a short neck. Irene wants to see light shining on golden curls—eyes that are more hazel than brown."

"You've flattered Mrs. Norris, too," Stella said. "You've taken away her double chin. And lowered her hairline. Oh, Mr. Frederick, I don't think you should have. I shall never paint anything that isn't true."

Mr. Frederick's eyes darkened at her criticism—but then he smiled. "I think it's a bit early to say 'never,' kidlet. You have a long and illustrious career ahead of you. Painters are forever painting things that aren't true. Do you think Monet's water-lillies were an actual representation of water-lillies? Or Munch's Scream an accurate representation of what the sky looked like on any night? Or Picasso's Guernica—Rouault's latest work is a perfect example. Do you know of Rouault, Stella?"

"Know of him?" Stella said, rather scornfully. "I know him. Monsieur Georges lived one flat above us and taught me to ice-skate on the river Seine."

"Very well, Miss Show-Off." Mr. Frederick smiled. "That is well and good. But what I'm trying to say is: consider M. Rouault's Crucifixion. It shows Christ on the cross. Now, how could that be a true representation of the event? It occurred two-thousand years before Rouault was born—it may not have occurred at all, to hear some people speak of it."

"Aunt Elizabeth would never let me come here again if she heard you say a thing like that!"

"So don't tell her. Here is the only truth about art, Stella. It's time you learned it. Each artist paints a vision of the truth, as he or she experiences it. It is true to the beholder but every person has his or her own truth. For instance—that portrait of your father, in which he looks gentle and kindly. You drew him that way because he was gentle and kindly to you. But there are plenty of people who would say that Dean Priest was the most miserable and uncharitable of men, and that would be true, too, because it was the truth as they experienced it."

Stella burst into tears.

Mr. Frederick looked alarmed—and then a little ashamed. He had not meant to say the bit about Dean, but a dark temper had taken hold of him and shook him like a dog shakes its prey to break its neck. Stella was only a child—he forgot sometimes, because of her intelligence, her talent. She was a child and her father had died only months before.

"God forgive me," he muttered, gathering the little shaking body up in his arms. "Stella Priest, daughter of Emily, beloved of Dean, won't you forgive me if He can't? I've no right to ask it of you—it was a horrid thing to say. Listen to me now, honey: your dad and I had our differences but he was a fine person in many ways. I don't know anybody who knew more about the world, and if I didn't like him, I respected his knowledge. I'm sorry I said otherwise."

"I don't—see—why everybody's so down on Father," Stella sobbed, her eyes slammed shut, her thin little chest racking with grief. "He was—just—wonderful to me. But Aunt Elizabeth doesn't—like—him, and even Aunt Laura—and she likes everybody. And you—and now I'm not even sure that Mother loved Father, and the thought of it hurts me! Mother didn't love him—she loved Teddy Kent!"

Leaning on Mr. Frederick's shoulder, Stella poured out the whole story. What she had heard the aunts say. What she had heard Aunt Ilse say. The way that Mother had behaved around Father—the way she behaved now that Father was gone. She wasn't happier, exactly, but everyone could see she was more hopeful. "She thinks now Father's gone she can find Mr. Kent and be with him again!" Stella wept. "Oh, I hate Teddy Kent, whoever he is. He could never take my father's place! And if he ever tried to, I'd—I'd—I'd run away! I'd just die, Mr. Frederick. I hate Teddy Kent—hate him—Hate him!"

Mr. Frederick let her go and stepped away from her. He turned to look out the window at the tansy blowing golden in the wind that came up from the sea. When he turned back, he said,

"I wouldn't worry about Mr. Teddy Kent, Stella. If he ever cared for your mother it was long ago, and I'm sure he doesn't anymore. If she cares for him, she only imagines it, and she'll get over that fancy the way people get over silly little things that cannot be. Don't cry, kidlet. I'll let you paint a wart on the end of Flora Norris's nose if you just stop crying. The sight of your tears rather makes me feel like crying, too, and that won't do at all, now will it?"

Stella dried her tears. The wart was duly painted, right on the end of Flora's (not) hawkish nose (and would be covered up again by Mr. Frederick at a later time). Stella knew this when she painted it, but just seeing it there for a little while made her feel ever so much better. By the time she went back to New Moon, she had quite forgotten her tears, and she played Mr. Frederick's words over in her mind.

"Teddy Kent doesn't love Mother—and she doesn't love him, really. It's silly for her to believe she does, but I've done many silly things in my life. I suppose I'll do plenty of silly things when I'm a mother, too—it is funny to think I ever might be. I certainly won't be as loveable as my Mother! Oh, when I see her I'm going to give her a big smacky kiss, just so she knows that she's my favorite, favorite person—along with Father—and dear, dear Mr. Frederick."

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Emily stared down at the paper in her hands, feeling dull and dead inside. The wind was stirring the tops of the firs in Lofty John's bush, a bird was singing somewhere, and the sun that pierced the pine gloom was warm on her back. But Emily felt a deathly little chill as she read the words that Teddy had written her.

Emily—

As Aunt Elizabeth might also say, 'There is too much water under the bridge' between us for any hope at reconciliation. My feelings for you were quite strong at one point, but they have burned out over the years for lack of fuel. I have my art—and you have things in your life that will distract you from whatever hurt you imagine you feel over this turn of events. Your daughter, for instance—turn to her, not to me. She has lost her father—and from what I hear she is at an age when she must need her mother more than ever.

I am sorry, but it cannot be.

T.K.

She read the words a third time, a fourth. And then she shredded the letter into little bits, watched them be borne away by the wind. They would molder into soil. Maybe the robins would use the scraps in their nests next spring. Maybe a wisp or two would be blown back to the Tansy Patch and Teddy would lift it up, recognize his own cold words.

"Well, that's that," said Emily, feeling as though some spark in her soul had finally—finally, after all those long years of faith!—gone out.