Leslie Ford tended her roses, as patiently as in her earlier gray years the vegetable patch of the Moore house, they shone, those tokens of Owen's love, they had together carried two of Persis Leigh's rosebushes in the summer of their first year of marriage, from the garden of the House of Dreams to Toronto, to this shady but sunny lot where now rose their home. Honeysuckle and Yewtrees were fragrant, and from the open window could be heard the almost incessant tapping of the typewriter, as Owen was there working on his latest manuscript. Leslie brushed a strand of vivid golden hair from her forehead, it was dusk, the sky was turning from pink to lavender, and the glowing green of summer was all around her. The newspapers wrote triumphantly about the progress of the summer offensive. Leslie raised her beautiful pale face to the blazing sky, and thought of Ken, whose latest letter had arrived only two days ago. Her beloved child, her only son, had written in his characteristic style, for he had inherited Owen's skill, to blend the nostalgia among the mundane, and sweetness with slight touch of epfemerality, as Leslie remembered resolutely direct handwriting of the letter which filled the tattered sheets of paper.

Dear Mum!

There is a quiet moment here for a change, and I am able to resume my correspondence, which I have been neglecting miserably. I'm safe, if a little tired, because it's been quite busy here lately. Thank you for the latest package, its contents were absolutely delicious. I save the sandalwood-scent cologne, for special occasions, if I have to be particularly groomed, as my recent Captain's status is its own cross to bear, all that internal politicking, almost as if I were still there, leaning on the doorpost, at some party of Father's publisher, but then I look around and see the rough boards of the dugout, and the faces gray with fatigue of the soldiers, my comrades around me, and that illusion shatters. I'd rather not be anywhere than here doing my part. We were entertained again and it boosted morale, although the result is that everyone is humming or whistling around me. However, it is somewhat amusing that the tunes of our most beloved hymns bend to such stanzas, which I dare not mention here in more detail, lest the precise pens of the censors blacken my letter. The men I lead are a fine bunch, and I find myself enjoying my duties, at least in some parts. I never thought that all the card games that Father taught me, that he had learned from different places over the years, would come to use, but it has. I'm not writing this to complain, but to say that I now understand why Walter's letters to dear Aunt Anne changed, or so he wrote to me. It is so very difficult to remember anything that has been before this. It feels like I've been here in the mud and blood for so long that on clear nights, even the stars seem unreal at times. Just as my memories of Toronto are beginning to blur, even though your and Persis letters bring to mind the skyline and bustle of that city I love so much, and the peace of the Rosedale area.The brilliance of the roses, you by the rose bushes, tending them, as you often did on hot evenings, before we drank tea, and Father entertained us with his roarinly funny anecdotes, the twinkle in Persis' eyes, or your golden tender laugh as you and Father danced in the living room when the paper had great reviews of his latest novel. That certain but elusive sense of home, that we always had between the four of us, despite all that travelling around the globe. Lately I have often thought about a certain silence of yours, when as children Persis and I asked you about your time before Father, your childhood and youth in Four Winds, because only deep and cutting life experiences could give you such silence, I understand it now in my own way. Experiences like that leave a mark on the soul, whatever they were, you never told us, you just sometimes rubbed your arms, where the pale scars were located in a star-like formations. Sometimes at night, before going to bed, I would run my fingers along them, I always thought they were so very beautiful, even if you covered them with your sleeves or your thick hair, which shimmered like molten gold in the dimness of my room. Your elusive way of rebuking us, when in sweltering summers Persis and I ran with Aunt Anne's children all over Four Winds, and into Glen, your occasional silences when the wind brought the roar of the sparkling sea to the terrace of the House of Dreams, and especially when sometimes on foggy cool evenings you refused to walk in the woods near the Moore house, which I always found a mysteriously exciting place. And those evenings when Father was very careful with you, or at least it felt that way, but the child's perspective is fragmented. Dear Mom, you have given me a unique legacy, I can read body language, and silences extremely well, and I have found that to be an advantage here, and it gives me an edge in my own humble leadership. Here too the intoxicating green of summer is upon us, the flickering light of the oil lamp shimmers, and I find myself dreaming, small pieces of dreams, as they will help me survive in this rolling storm.

Your loving son,

Kenneth.

After reading her son's letter, Leslie had thought back to the times Ken had so artfully brought out, the light details that still gnawed like an old sore wound in her soul, and with half-careless clinical detachment Leslie glanced at her wrist, where one pale curved burn scar was, with a shudder Leslie got up, opened the window, and for a moment the tumult of Toronto, displaced the sometimes still very loud echoes of her past. Then there was also, Anne's letters, which had flooded drop by drop, for in their correspondence Anne poured out all the rebellious pain she carried in her heart.

And with a little sigh, Leslie stretched, and came back from her thoughts to the present, as the screeching of a car's brakes, echoed in the still evening, and soon the car door slammed shut, and Leslie looked up to find that Persis had arrived home. Leslie heard her daughter's sonorous voice ask perceptively, "Are you avoiding the newspaper headlines, or Rosedale Laidies Aid plans by tending the roses?" Persis leaned impressively against the iron fence, in her uniform, the setting sun glimmering in her hair, she fingered her driving gloves, and with a slight worry in her heart, Leslie noticed the bluish rings of exhaustion under her daughter's bright eyes. So, Leslie raised her golden eyebrow, and said " "Neither, you look tired. Remember not to overwork yourself, the work of the Red Cross is important, but you mustn't ruin your health." After Leslie's words a light silence prevailed in that shadowy, beautiful little garden, where glowing crimson roses spread their fragrance. Persis glanced attentively in Leslie's direction, and she nodded and said with a soft smile, "There is no more sound of the typewriter's bell, so Father has finished his work for the day, we can go and have tea, which I really need, because the tea in the Red Cross canteen is overboiled and metallic, no culinary triumph, you know how much I love well-brewed tea."

There was the barest touch of nostalgia in Leslie's fleeting smile, for Persis's words had momentarily conjured before her their time in Japan, the soft, moist monsoon rains, the grace of bonsai trees and rock gardens, and the intricate choreography of tea ceremonies, and the light, unforgettable scent of jasmine tea, and Persis in her pink kimono sitting in a garden where the cherry-blossoms were fragrant, as it was season for them, Kenneth by her side, in his white suit, eagerly writing a letter, to Walter. Persis, had turned briskly and exclaimed in her curious, sweetly confident way, "May we live here always!" And Owen had glanced with a smile in Leslie's direction, and said softly, "My dear Butterfly, unfortunately not, so enjoy these remaining weeks." And their children really had done so.

The shadows of the evening decorated the sensually decorated living room, and carefully Leslie drew the thin curtains in front of the large windows. The thick carpet was pale and bluish in color, mahogany bookcases reflected the soft light from the crystal chandeliers, and with light steps Leslie went to her kitchen with a contented heart. Soon, scent of fresh bread wafted from the kitchen, there were warm loaves on the table under the cloth. Persis sat at the low tea table, closing her eyes in pleasure as the steam of the tea enveloped her features in its embrace. In front of Persis was a tray of graceful and airy beautiful teaservice, inherited via Alice Selwyn, nothing fussy and over-decorated Victorian, but a genuine old Georgian style from the 1790s. Thoughtfully Persis ran her finger along the gilded graceful rim of her teacup, thin bone china was very warm. Owen Ford, shook his hands and declared, "Now the work of three months is finally done, and soon I can send the manuscript to the publisher. You know, my love, that I hate meetings, in the middle of creative work." Leslie calmly poured more tea into Owen's cup, and she somewhat playfully said, "You'll let me make my observations, won't you?" Owen smiled, and said with genuine enthusiasm, "Of course my love, our partnership is one of the joys of my life, for you endure so much. I am absent, only half present, but still, as always, only yours." Persis pointedly pointed out, "Until the book is out and everyone wants a piece of you, and we fade into the background, or are pretty decorations, the well-photographed family of famous author Owen Ford, who generously give their time at various charity events and dinner parties." " Owen frowned and said, "Butterfly, why such discontent?" Persis played with her narrow silver spoon with an elaborate rose carved into it, and she said a little evasively, "Somehow, surrounded all day by sheets, bandages, and to-do lists and demands, I'd like to do something bigger, but I do not know what yet." Leslie frowned and said placatingly, "War affects everything, and it's everywhere, there's no escaping it. But if you want to, join the activities of Laides Aid, there are also young people they've organized their own clubs, as expected." Persis grimaced lightly, and said firmly "Thank you, no." Leslie glanced appraisingly at Persis as she nodded, and put small pot of jam in the table. Persis, finished her tea in silence and then she stretched and said, trying to lighten her voice, " "I have a pile of letters waiting to be answered, so if you'll excuse me." And so, Persis slipped out of the homely living room, she stopped on the threshold to rub her aching feet, softly, and she heard her parents' quiet and loving conversation rising behind her, all about inner motivations of Owen Fords newest set of characters immortalised with consumate skill.

A Japanese-style screen split Persis' room in half, and in the light of the warm lamp, a narrow jade-green long string of pearls glistened, a couple of days earlier, after evening out, Persis had carelessly thrown the necklace on her dressing table, and the brass-framed dressing table mirror showed a somewhat messy room, which, according to Leslie's oft-repeated words, looked like the back room of an antique warehouse piles of books, and treaties on various subjects, mixed aesthetics and memorabilia, only the pillow covers embroidered with Bible verses were missing. On her desk was a lopsided pile of letters, one from Ken, a sombre missive, devoid of her brothers usual twinkling charm, a few from Kingsport, from Di and also one from Dorian Gardiner, cheerly missive full of tallish tales of some vague family-history project that he was embroiled upon, there also were slight anecdotes of Perennial, as was customary. Di wrote lightly, as always, with her keen insights, filled with her warm humour. Collecting her thoughts, Persis began to write answers, making especial point write particulary cheerful letter to Ken. Through open window a wide hedge of hawthorn spread, blooming hawthorns, spreading their gentle fragrance, and reaching out and bending one slender branch, Persis looked at the flawless flower of the hawthorn, there was something extremely pure in its soft pale grace, and thoughtfully Persis slipped the flower between Ken's letter, hoping that that little memory of home would bring comfort to him. Finally, with a light sigh, Persis rubbed her fingers, and smiled when the sound of the gramophone echoed from the living room, she knew that if she peeked into the living room, a familiar sight would meet her, Leslie and Owen would be dancing, a slow, romantic waltz, as they sometimes did in the evenings.


Madeline Dobson let out an exasperated sigh as she realized that it was the sixth time that morning that she had missorted certain archive slips, as she often had done in the past few days, as her concentration was completely shattered due to Claire's lovely, captivatingly romantic letter. Madeline walked the cool halls of the library when her musings were interrupted by the commanding voice of a customer. With a helpful and unutterably polite expression on her face, Madeline streightenend her brown hems, as she walked across the main hall, but the customer was nowhere to be seen. Then she noticed that the door to the concert hall was ajar, and from there she could hear the piano playing and the sounds of lively conversation, and so, Madeline peeked inside.

The lid of the concert grand piano was open, and Alice Parker stood at the edge of the stage, in a thin old cream-shaded Edwardian dress with a lavender sash, a jumbled pile of sheet music around her, and a dark-haired woman walked briskly around Alice, her slender arms fluttering. And then came the same commanding voice that had been heard in the hall, "Again, keep your intensity and trust your lower register, no fumbling!" And with that, the dark-haired woman turned and nodded to the pianist, who began to play, something Madeline recognized as Händel. When Alice had finished, she said, "My dear, remember your hands, you know, flexibility, but don't overdo it." Then music changed, to a sparkling Mozart, as Alice rendered a touching ballad, Das Veilchen, with meltingly tender experssion and vivid living tone, as Madeleine, retreated from the doorway to her duties. A couple of hours later, shortly before closing time, Madeleine again came arcoss, Alice and a dark-haired woman dressed in a dark blue walking dress, talking in a low voice, near the colonnade in the main hallway. Dark-toned, almost purringly soft cultured voice said, "Change is invigorating, isn't it?"Alice's blond braided head, bowed in a light nod, Madeleine noted.

Then Alice looked up into the doorway, and exclaimed, in her fond, sweet way, "Madeleine, I want to introduce you to someone, this is Christine Stuart Dawson, it is possible that you have already met, at some point, though." Madeline looked up at the familiar, sculpted features, no longer perhaps as flourishing as in the silver-framed photograph. Madeline noticed that a small wrinkle had appeared on Christine Stuart Dawson's forehead, and she said, "Miss Dobson, you are the librarian here? So, it is due to you then that our practise was success today, as someone had made the piano in right tune, finally, it was abomination last time I visited these premises. We mustn't separate Miss Dobson from her catalogues, and lists, or whatever it is that you do, as it is nearly closing time. Alice my dear, I seem to remember that I had promised you tea, as a treat. Luckily there is a place that has most exellent service, even this late hour of the day." Alice, with a light beaming smile, and a nod in Madeline's direction, she walked straight by Christine Stuart Dawson's side out of the library, into the bright early evening.

All alone in her office, in the soft comforting scent of tea and slight tang, of honey, lingering, Madeline pulled out a slightly yellowed card index from one of the filing cabinets, and held one card up to the light. Madeline read following impersonal listing. Stuart Christine, age 22, student, Redmond University Department of Music, major, vocals, mezzo-soprano, minor, piano and cello. Other things to consider: sight-reading, music pedagogy, minor. Awarded High Honors in Music in academic year 1877. One of the most brilliant and visible performers in Redmond for years, we predict a spectacular career for Miss Stuart.

Madeline, closed the drawer with a click, and fluffed her wildly curly, slightly graying hair thoughtfully. It was obvious that Alice had taken Madeline's advice to heart, as she seemed to have found herself quite a competent teacher. Madeline frowned as she remembered Dorothy's saucy stories about Christine Stuart Dawson, and her feline-like ways and airy graces. Madeleine tidied up her desk, the colorful ink bottles, rows of fountain pens, the box that contained loan slips, the color of which varied from pale, to yellow and pink. Madeline fingered the invitation, Dorothy's summer soiree, which had arrived in the mail yesterday, and she sighed under her breath knowing she was expected to dress-up. Golden light the color of ripe honey shone from the tall windows, and the library was finally empty. Madeline grabbed her purse, and her hat, and with hesitant steps headed toward Kingsport's main street, for she loathed shopping.


Crystals twinkled and perfectly brewed tea smelled in the small, intimate parlor, filled with light chatter and sahdes of cream and silver, with flower decorations and potpurri-arragements, there the cream of Kingsport gathered. Christine escorted Alice to a corner table with a reservation sign, written in delicate calligraphy. Adeline Gardiner glanced in Christine's direction with a slight confusion, for beside her dear friend sat the fair-haired girl who had visited Gardiner Hall a few times as Dorian's guest. So, feeling curious, Adeline walked up to them, she heard the blond girl, Alice as her name was, remark, "How about more contemporary French music, if you ever want to wean me off Schubert or Mozart. The Delius we've been working on is lovely, like that todays Händel's Oh mio cor, which is still a work in progress for me." Adeline noticed that, Christine didn't display any of the refined grandeur she usually employed in social situations, instead her voice was warm and genuine as she replied, " You have a somewhat tiresome and sentimental addiction to all kinds of Bohemian music, of which Mahler is just one example."

Alice looked up from her fragrant cup of tea when a familiar cool polite voice said in an amused tone, "Dear Christine, how is your little project going? It has been quite some time that you have been here." And she saw Dorian's other aunt beside their shady table. Adeline looked elegant, as always, but cold, and judgmental, and strained, compared to Dorothy's bohemian warmth. Alice suddenly felt a little shabby, and she instinctively glanced at her clean, and above all, light dress, which was hopelessly old-fashioned, but extremely comfortable, and with a heat wave punishing Kingsport for the second week in a row, comfort had been paramount, at least by all the inhabitants of Primrose Hollow, for they all went about their errands in thin muslin dresses, and large straw hats.

Christine, replied with an amused glint in her dark blue eyes, "Addie my dear, your curiosity is a bit amusing at times, but in answer to your question, things are going quite smoothly. We can go to lunch soon, you need a break, judging by your expression., as you know anything can happen, unexpected expenditures, and surprising gains, on various fronts." Adeline nodded, glanced at her watch, straightened her hat, took her parasol, and walked gracefully into the busy street with quick steps.

Alice had half-listened to the women's conversation, and had concluded that perhaps Christine too might be doing something for the war effort, for as Dorian had often pointed out a little irritably, " That Stuart Dawson woman is a very frequent visitor at the Hall, with the other women in Adeline's circle ." Alice tasted her bergamot flavored tea, as Christine's dark blue satin gloves caught the light as she, with a lazy gesture, split her remaining sconce in two.


Later, serene peace of Christine's hotel room was all around her, once more, with high-recessed, ornate ceiling, soft light reflected on the gildings, making them glisten faintly, as dark blue velvet curtains, were swaying in the light breeze, as Alice rested with her back straight on the dark blue carpet, Christine's long-fingered hands moved lightly, impersonally, intimately, over her chest, and rib-cage, as Christine's slightly amused voice remarked, "Alice, you're not concentrating, remember to breathe, deeply, all the way down to your toes." Alice let out a shuddering sigh and tried hard to concentrate on her breathing exercises, that came after seemingly never ending scales, but it was extremely difficult as she could only focus on the scent of Christine's rose water, which was suddenly everywhere. And then Christine said mischievously, in a tone that Alice had already expected, "You're stiff as a bar of iron, when you should be light as a stretchy toffee. Close your eyes and think of something pleasant." And again Alice felt that same maddeningly, delicate impersonal touch that varied, then she heard a light rustle, as Christine's voice sounded very close. Soft, tempting, Seguidilla's light notes sparkled in the room, as scent of rose water was joined by a hint of powder. After a few, ageless moments, Alice felt Christine's cool, rings on her wrist, as she said, "Darling, you seem little flushed, and your pulse seems rapid. Once years ago an acquaintance of mine taught me how to measure it. It is nice to know that I still know a thing or two. "

A decorative clock ticked on a small table. With a start, Alice opened her eyes, from the mirror of the dressing-table there was a greenish, silken glint, which half merged in the shadows. Christine sat on the divan, like Floria Tosca made flesh, as she held out a sparkling glass of champagne, to Alice, with a beguiling little smile, twisting her lips, as she said, " To fruitful collaboration."


In the peace of Primrose Hollow, Nan went into the kitchen, and she began to study the recipe for Butchy written in Alice's clear handwriting, though Nan wondered what Susan would say, that she, an Ingelside child, even considered baking non-Presbyterian treats. Nan, thought Jerry, how delighted Jerry would be at this surprise. And with a determined glint in her hazel eyes, Nan checked that all the necessary ingredients could be found.

When Alice and Di arrived at Primrose Hollow, a soft, slightly sweet scent wafted towards them, already at the front door, and Di looked inquisitively in Alice's direction, noticing that her lips trembled slightly, as Alice, exclaimed with extraordinary impulsiveness, with a flushed features, "Nan, Nan, oh, you've baked them!" And from the kitchen, Nan came, wrapped in a big striped apron, a little speck of flour on her face, and she said, "Well, I took advantage of the quiet house, I think I'll have to try this recipe one more time before I´ll send this to Jerry." Rosemary Meredith's large blue casserole-dish she had given Faith was filled with a fragrant brioche-style treat filled with raisins.

Alice carefully cut one piece, and tasted, an extremely nostalgic look spreading across her features as she said, "Nan, you've done it, it tastes exactly as it should. Don't think too much about the toppings, or fillings, you can use anything for this, basically."

Nan remarked in the dim dimness of their room to Di, "Somehow I feel, maye because of this recipe thing, I understand Alice a little better, perhaps, than I did before." Di, stretched and sighed, and said, "Mind you, this treat is connected with her childhood. You remember how impatient we were for Marilla's rhubarb pie when we sometimes went to Avonlea in May, so perhaps this is a similar thing for Alice. Do you remember how Susan's rhubarb pies never tasted quite the same, as Marillas why was that?" Nan cheerfully replied, "The reason is simple, Marilla put a little ginger ale in hers, and cinnamon, and those ingredients are missing from Susan's version, it has sour cream, and vanilla sugar instead, and Susan's dough was also sweeter."

A stunned silence fell in the room, and then Di said, "Nanlet, how can you remember something like that, so accurately." Nan said in a slightly sleepy voice, "I've been going through the little recipe book that Mumsy packed for us, today. Apparently Marilla wrote it for Mumsy when she went to study in Redmond, it has almost all of Mumsy's favorite dishes written in Marilla's old-fashioned in clear handwriting." "Plum Puffs" Di, inquired. And Nan laughed and said, "It's a recipe we already know, I'm more interested in what we don't know, and that booklet is very economical, especially in these times, we may all benefit from it many more times, I hope."

Sultry warmth caressed the garden of Primrose Hollow, and Alice sat in a nook, where the light and shadows played, and sewed, beside her lay the libretto of Alcina, it was half past noon. Then a delighted exclamation echoed, and Alice saw that Di waved two pale envelopes in her hand, saying, " Well, at least we know what we're doing Saturday, we're going to Dorothy's!" A light smile flickered across Alice's lips and she said a little hesitantly, "What about Nan, we can't leave her out, not on Saturday, that would be inhumane."

Di, said nonchalantly, "I'm sure Dorian might have plans, he was talking earlier about Nan wanting to see Hall's library, properly, and now might be the time." Alice smiled as she thought of the warm and innocent and platonic, slightly mischievous, friendship that had sprung up between Nan and Dorian, and said, "Perhaps Nan will want to come with us, to Dorothy, for didn't you say she was curious about her salons?"

Di raised her silvery voice across the garden, calling, "Nanlet, will you come out, into the garden, if you can?" And soon, Nan was standing in her rose pink cotton dress with her fingers in ink, looking questioningly at both Alice and Di. Alice noticed how Di said in a cautiously neutral tone, "Nan, do you have any plans for Saturday, perhaps?" A light smile came to Nan's lips and she said, "I happen to be spending the day with Dorian, there's something important he wants to show me, at Gardiner Hall, why do you ask?" Di, smiled and said cheerfully, "Well then, all Primrose Hollow girls will be away next Saturday, as we've been invited to Dorian's Aunt Dorothy's, something to do with her various charity-endevoirs, I think." Nan looked intently at Di and then her eyes flashed and she just said, "I, see."


Then it, was Saturday and garden of Dorothy Gardiner's house was shady, and the roses were in full bloom, and the murmur of conversation echoed in the still, summer afternoon. Madeline Dobson sat in the shade, under a blossoming chestnut tree, on the other side of the garden Dorothy held her court, and near her, as always, was the dark-haired figure of Ernestine. Di Blythe's silvery laugh rang out, and with soft eyes, Madeline observed how Di seemed engrossed in literary conversation. From the open window could be heard piano playing and singing, it was Alice, naturally, Les Chansons de Bilitis by Debussy, was perhaps a slightly worn choice, but extremely appropriate for this gathering. Madeline heard a familiar voice say, "Well, miracles can sometimes happen, Dorothy has managed to drag you out of the library, even for one radiant bright day." And with a smile, Madeleine turned, and remarked half-seriously, "The same could be said of you, Isabelle, how are the charts progressing?" Behind Madeleine stood a slender, petite, reddish-brown-haired woman in a burgundy dress, who smiled in her somewhat cool way and said, "The lists and the customers never change, but you have more peace, there among the Gardiners' money and musicians, than I do."

Dorothy's cheerful voice stated, "The Archives and Library section is full now that you're both here, lovely!" Isabelle's greenish eyes narrowed and she said pointedly, "Dorothy, I'm usually here if I can, so don't try your oh so, very charming Gardiner tricks on me, as they won't work, besides, that joke is extremely worn." Amused, Madeline looked around, the most frequent guests of Dorothy's salon were all there, in small clusters, changing places. And with soft hands, Madeline adjusted the collar of her new blue dress, with some difficulty, because it tickled. And sensing Isabella's watchful, fixed gaze, Madeline shrugged, and a small smile spread across Isabelle's lips, and she said quietly, "You know this dress code for this summer do is just because Dorothy wants to make sure everyone comes, and that you a dear friend is seen at least once a year, in some shade other than the eternal brown, as lovely as it is on you." Gentle shadows trembled on the grass, and laughter echoed, and inside, the music had stopped. Madeline took a taste of her lemonade, and said seriously, "Isabelle, there are a few new people here that I want to introduce you to, I think that you may like them." And so saying, Madeline led Isabelle over to Di and Alice, and she watched with satisfaction as a lively conversation seemed to spring up between them almost immediately. The hours ticked by, and the first strawberries in the crystal bowl dwindled as the light faded.


The emerald green lawn glowed and Gardiner Hall was an oasis of quiet peace. In Dorian's blue-tinted room, the door was open to the corridor, and sitting straight-backed on a soft sofa, Nan, with tears in her eyes, listened to Dorian's fragmented narration, as she ran her fingers over the notebooks, the soft silky brocade fabric, and looked at the large heavy-framed painting, and then she said in her witty, warm way, "Dorian, it's clear you've been thinking about this matter too much on your own. I want to point out to you that journal entries are always subjective. I appreciate you talking about this with me, but shouldn't you be talking about this with Dorothy, for example?"

A flash of excitement came over Dorian's face, and he declared, "Nan, brilliant idea, as there is no time like present, come!" A little hesitantly, Nan remarked, "But Dorian what if we interrupt something, like some Laidies Aid event?" Dorian waved his hand carelessly and said, "If Dorothy is busy she will tell us, so in no uncertain terms, besides, aren't you curious about my aunt's circle? This is your chance to see them all!"

And then, with a little thrill in the pit of her stomach, Nan sat in the back seat of the Gardiners' black Ford, and watched the summer scenery flow past them. Eventually Ford turned a corner, into a beautiful street of tall, red-brick, Victorian-looking, narrow houses with gardens in front, there were colorfully dressed people in the courtyard of the in house, but in the shady gloom Nan saw no sign of Di or Alice. And Nan noticed that she and Dorian were being watched with somewhat wary and veiled eyes as they made their way to the front door. Music echoed from the half-open window, the curtains were drawn down, and shadowy figures seemed to be gliding in the large room, light, slightly indistinct speech could be heard. And as Dorian knocked on the door punctually, with dignity, complete silence fell upon the room.

Some time passed before the door opened, and Dorian's aunt stood in the doorway. Nan blinked, for she looked resplendent, and a light reserve was in her dark eyes as she said lightly, glancing at Dorian and Nan, "Ah, Dorian, and Nan, today is a bit of a bad time for a visit, for there is a little gathering of friends here, I'm sure you understand." Dorian smiled captivatingly and said "But Auntie, I have a matter of utmost urgency." Dorothy let out a small resigned sigh and said somewhat reproachfully, "You think everything you do is extremely important. Have you lost your tie pin again?" Feeling stung, Dorian flared up, as he declaired, "No, but I've been reading my mother's journals, and I want to discuss them with you when you have time. Nan suggested I speak with you, so here we are."

Dorothy shot a piercing look at Nan, and Nan, chin up, could barely answer it. A deep silence fell on the stairs, only the sleepy buzzing of the bees in the roses could be heard. And then Dorothy said in an unflinchingly coolly polite tone, "I understand my dear, but not today." Then softly she closed the door in front of Dorian and Nan.

Feeling mollified, Dorian chuckled and said, "Well, at least I tried, shall we go to have tea, or can we also visit Perennial's office, as it is nearby? I think that you might like it, a lot. There are all kinds of things stored there."


About half an hour later, Nan fingered the pencils on Di's workstation, and looked at that large, shadowy room where Walter, and now her dearest twin, had spent so many happy moments. And a little hesitantly she inquired, "Dorian, do you happen to have Walter's writings anywhere here, if so can I read them if you don't mind?" Dorian looked up from the Perennial article he was filing and said gently, "Of course, wait a minute."

There were a few cardboard folders full of familiar handwriting on the table, and with trembling fingers Nan began to read them, drafts of essays, cross-outs, poems, the bright creative power of her talented brother was here, all still so vibrant and living, in a way that he no longer could not be. Suddenly scent of tea filled the room, startled Nan looked up to see Dorian carefully carrying a large bright orange teacup with gilded rims and some floral design as he gently set it down in front of Nan, a wistful twinkle in his green eyes and he lifted, his own matching cup, and said, "To Walter" Stinging tears burned Nan's eyes as she finally said goodbye to her brother, as she raised her garish teacup to mirror Dorian´s salute, room smelled of tears, tea, sugar, ink, and Dorian's lilac cologne, and behind the windows, the sultry night of Kingsport was slowly darkening.