Juliet went home in time for the New Year, bearing snapshots of the baby to show to the grandparents. Little Emily Elizabeth—or Embeth, as they all had taken to calling her—posed for her first photos with all the graces and airs of a princess born to a royal family.

"She was born to a royal family," Juliet corrected them. "Isn't she part Murray?"

"And Starr," Mother added.

"And Kent," said Father.

"And Priest," Uncle Dean amended.

"And Grayson!" Little Elizabeth finished. "What an awful lot of traditions and heritage our baby has to live up to!"

The pictures were examined and scrutinised. It was decided that the baby had Mother's eyes and ears, Father's hands, Little Elizabeth's mouth and Uncle Dean's chin and nose. They all argued ceaselessly about who and what that finally Mother threw up her hands, smiling.

"Stop!" said she. "Oh, we mustn't subject this child to this kind of banter her whole life. How angry it used to make me, to hear I was made up of bits and pieces. But—one thing I do hope my little granddaughter inherits is the Murray look—it's served me well over my lifetime. Just last week I almost turned Olive Drew to a pillar of salt—she told me I was beginning to look rather old."

"You—old!" Uncle Dean laughed. "To me, Emily, you are still the same young girl that I found clinging to the Malvern rocks so long ago. Do you remember that day, Emily? It's funny—all the things that happened so long ago seem strangely close to me these past few weeks—months—fleeting and slipping around me like shadows and smoke, mysterious and untangible. But so real. Isn't that strange? Everywhere I go I smell the fragrance of dead roses. Well, come Little Elizabeth—for a moment there I was a younger man but now I feel old again. Let's get home before the chill in the air settles in my bones. Goodbye, Teddy—Juliet—Emily."

They bade the happy couple goodbye—well, Father and Juliet did. Mother didn't seem to notice. She kissed Dean absentmindedly on his wrinkled cheek, her brow furrowed.

"I'm worried about him," she explained when Uncle Dean and Little Elizabeth had gone. "Dean seems so ghostly lately—as if he were slipping very gradually away. Am I the only one who notices it?"

"You're in a morbid mood," Father laughed. "All of Dean's talk about shadows has unsettled you. Be of good cheer, my darling wife, and come and admire the portrait of our granddaughter I've started working on. For some reason I cannot capture how sweet she really is with pen and ink. Leave all of Dean's talk about shadows behind and be happy—all is happiness and light."

But still, Mother gazed into the distance. Perhaps she was seeing shadows of her own, lurking around the corner.

* * *

Allan came down that weekend and he and Juliet had a gay, happy whirl of togetherness. They were not separated for a second. A sudden snow shower came up Friday night and left them all stranded until Sunday morning, which was freakishly warm for January. Allan, who had had dinner at New Moon, slept that night in Doug's old room. Juliet lay in her cozy nest of blankets, content to know that only a thin wall separated her from her true love.

"It makes—all the difference—to know he is near," she thought drowsily as she drifted off to slumberland.

When Allan left on Sunday to go back to Charlottetown she did not even have time to miss him—she was going to spent the week at Bea's new house over in Harmony!

What a wonderful time she had. Bea's house looked like her—at least, on the inside. On the outside it looked like David—sturdy and solid with a hint of charm and humor about the edges. Inside it was all Bea. The parlor was papered with pink and purple fans—leopard spots in the sitting room—and garishly red roses on a yellow background in the dining room. Bea had placed bouquets of peacock feathers everywhere. It was a sight and made Juliet's head whirl to behold it—at first. She soon got used to it! But oh, how the Harmony gossips must be talking! The only calm place in the whole house was the upstairs bedroom that Juliet inhabited during her stay. It was hung with the pretty bluebell paper and there was a lovely ivory cashmere bedspread and white eyelet curtains at the windows. Juliet exclaimed over it over and over again until Bea explained,

"We had to put all the stodgy things we got as wedding gifts somewhere."

It was good to see Bea. She looked—older—somehow. More settled, more content—if such words could be used to describe madcap Bea! David was good for her—he could settle her with a flick of his eyes or a touch of his hand. He could calm her ruffled feathers when she had a tantrum just with a quick kiss. The girls went out almost every night: to the cafe, to the cinema, or to the new Chinese retaurant that was in town. They visited a certain blond-haired imp by the name of Lee Guest who inhabited the nearby Clouf of Spruce—he and Juliet were especial friends. Then the girls sat up late in Bea's warm, cozy kitchen, where Bea prepped Juliet for the rigors of married life. Some of it made Juliet laugh—some of it made her blush—and some of Bea's prattle made her feel imposibly young and left behind.

"I wonder if I will change any when Allan and I are married?" she asked Juliet-in-the-glass as she stood in her moonlit, bluebell bedroom. "It seems strange—to think of us doing those things—that Bea talked about—things that married couples do. But oh! So wonderful, too. It's very—odd—this growing up!"

She went to bed with a smile on her face, her diamond troth winking in the moonlight that filtered in through the eyelet curtains. But when she woke in the morning it was to Bea's tear-stained face and disheveled hair. David had his hand solidly on her shoulder.

"Oh, what is it?" Juliet cried, suddenly wide awake, her heart pounding. "What's happened? It—is—Allan?" All of the years of war and separation had taken their toll on Juliet Kent—she could never get bad news without first thinking of that time that Allan had gone missing and they had feared the worst.

"It's not," Bea said. "It's not Allan. And your Mother and Father are fine. But oh, Juliet—Dean Priest—Uncle Dean—is dead."

* * *

The next few days were terrible and past very slowly. Of course Bella must be told—and it was Mother who called her—calm, haunted Mother—for Little Elizabeth was too broken-up to do anything but sit on the sofa in the New Moon parlor, staring limply into the distance. It was as if she were trying to bridge the greatest distance of all by being especially calm and still—she shed not a tear, which chilled Juliet more than anything else. Mother's eyes, too, were dry, as she planned and prepared everything that Aunt Elizabeth could not. But Bella cried enough for all of them—she was beside herself with grief. She could not come to the funeral—she was not yet strong enough to fly and the baby was too little for a long trip. Juliet was secretly glad—the funeral was terrible—Uncle Dean hadn't looked like himself. There was no hint of the sarcastic humor they all loved in his face—there was no sign of the great intellect hidden beneath his shaggy head—yes, even until the last Uncle Dean had kept a full head of shaggy hair.

The strangest memories kept coming back to Juliet. That night last summer that she and Uncle Dean had read by candlelight—the night that she had first fallen in love with the stories of the past. And he had introduced her to that love! There would be no more stories from that gentle soul now. She remembered how when they were children, he would place his hand on the very top of her shiny black curls and cup it there—it was the most gentle, reassuring touch in the world. A flood of memories washed over her, keeping her from sleep. Juliet crept down to the kitchen—she could not bear it.

And there was Mother, sitting alone in the dark at the table. With just a beam of light from the moon slanting down and touching her forehead like a crown of jewels. Juliet flew to her and buried her head in her lap. A chill touched Juliet's own heart. It was impossible—impossible—that someone like Mother could die! And yet she would—one day.

"Mother—Mother! How can we bear it?" she said brokenly.

Emily Kent stroked her daughter's hair and smiled a sad, wan smile. She knew that the first time death touches a person it is the most heartsick, forlorn feeling in the world. Emily had had to face death at a young age—her first memory was kissing her own mother's cold, cold cheek. She was glad that feeling of great stillness had been kept from her girl for so long.

"Darling Juliet," she said. "This is the first time you've experienced the death of someone close to you—you were too young to remember when Aunts Elizabeth and Laura and Cousin Jimmy went. But it will get easier with time. The saddest thing is when a person who is young dies—like Owen Ford from the Glen—or Ilse and Perry's poor lost girl. Emily Miller would be older than you now—strange, it's so strange. Those two souls never really had a chance to experience what we all hope to experience in this life. But Dean did. These past twenty years he was the happiest person to ever walk the face of the earth. Oh yes—his life was hard before. But you cannot really have a full life without some pain, don't you think, darling? And knowing that Uncle Dean had a full life—that he really lived—counts for something, doesn't it?"

"It's not just that," Juliet wept. "But you—and Father—and Aunt Ilse and Uncle Perry—and Little Elizabeth—and Doug—and Allan! That is the hardest thing of all. Seeing the look in Aunt Elizabeth'e eyes. She loved Dean so—just as I love Allan. What should I do without him—or any of you?"

"Juliet," Mother said wisely. "When a person you love dies a part of you dies, too. You love me—and Ilse and Perry—and Allan and Doug and Father—would you sacrifice yourself for us—for any of us?"

"Of course I would!"

"Loving is the greatest sacrifice." Mother stroked Juliet's hair tenderly. "And living with the risk that the person you love might one day not be there is part of it. Live every day to the fullest, my girl—dont waste a moment—and then when my time comes—and Teddy's—and Allan's—and yours—you will be able to let go with a light heart, knowing that you lived the best life you possibly could."

They stayed that way for a long while, mother and child, as the wind whistled through Lofty John's bush. Then Juliet asked, "But it's still hard—isn't it, Mother?"

"Yes," Mother said. "Dean Priest was my last link to my own dear Father—he was like a Father to me. Oh, Juliet, life is wonderful and magical and sweet and tender—but at times, it is hard. Never for a moment believe that it isn't! Oh, world! You are such a cruel lover—and friend!"

The tears Emily had been holding back for so long began now to fall down her cheeks, and it was Juliet's turn to hold her mother in her arms. AS she did so, Juliet had the oddest sensation—that she and Mother were now somehow more than that—that they were no longer separated by the bounds of time and age. As the two women of New Moon held each other that night they were bound together by grief—and love.

* * *

A/n: A depressing chapter, I know—things will get better and more lighthearted soon! My own grandmother and grandfather died this year so I think I was working out some feelings I had left over from that. I hope you all can take something from this, and that it helps anyone else out there who is grieving.

Sorry I haven't updated in so long—I have the flu. :-\