Glimmering half-sunlight pouring in through the graceful windows of the conservatory. Orchids were everywhere, in colorful patches, yellow, red, vanilla white, pale purple, their slanting leaves and tangled bundles of roots like ropes, and a little distance away was a small pond shaded by ferns and floating water lilies, where turtles lived, gliding warily over the water, silent, and lizard-like, ancient, as if they knew some secret. Cautiously, Dorian leaned on his canes and walked to the pond, and took one of the turtles out of the water, into his arms. Its little elongated toes flailed, and it resisted a little. Gently, with one finger, Dorian stroked carapace, and lifted the turtle to a nearby backwater area that had excellent conditions for turtles, and soon it had disappeared surprisingly quickly into the undergrowth. Dorian smiled, and checked that their food and water cups had fresh water, and enough nutritious food, such as vegetables, in small pieces, and insects, but not too much.

Before the war, Dorian had taken on this duty to himself, ever since Adeline had once remarked "The servants complain about the turtles, and I cant look after them any more, if we can't find another solution, their shells would make beautiful combs, they could also make excellent soup, or so I've read somewhere. We're in Canada, not some tropical climate, almost all flower varieties always have to be moved to different rooms in the Hall for the winter season, and sometimes when Laidies Aid comes here, they wonder and marvel, it's so tiring at times. Why did you have to build that spectacle Roy, as it drained out funds so severely?" Dorian still, clearly remembered his Papas's answer, which had surprised him, at the time, but no longer. "Adeline, I built the greenhouse because I promised to, because I broke that other promise that might have meant more, that time I gave in to your demands, I have often wondered if, well no matter."

Adeline had sniffed, in a sensorial manner, and stilted silence had fallen in the drawing room. Dorian had set his teacup on the saucer and, avoiding his aunt's coldly disapproving look, he had said, in slightly defiant tone, "I'll take charge of the turtles." Dorothy had ruffled his hair and she said warmly, "Well done, dear! I think there are books in the library on the care of turtles." Perhaps some kind of astonishment had shone in Papa's eyes, but he had only nodded, as if to give his assent. And, so every winter the large terrarium had been carried into Dorian's room, and he had faithfully and carefully looked after them, and every now and then took turtles, to hibernate on the lower shelf of the smaller cold cupboard, to the kitchens.

Frowning, Dorian recalled the endless meetings he had attended, only few weeks ago, at his Papas request, and the evenings during which he had gained a clearer picture than before of how money and influence spoke behind the scenes, donations, whispers in the shadows, and stock market prices, that twined and joined into all-pervading global bloody war, that were fought all over the world.

Dorian remembered how, exhausted by meetings, he had one afternoon carefully taken one of the most beautiful orchids to Madeleine. Dorian had shyly looked around that dim back room full of little boxes, and notes, where customers never came. Handing the orchid to the woman, he had said, " It's only fair that you get one of the most beautiful of our orchid-varietes, for I am sorry for Adeline's behavior when you were my guest at the Hall." Madeline had looked at the orchid with a strange expression on her face, it had been half astonishment, but there had been something else too, which had quickly faded away, and Madeleine's expression had been unspeakably calm again, as they had slowly gone through the collections, ending up enjoying a cool shrub of tisaine, with dried dates in it, in Madeleine's office as a rainbow beam of light had shone from the beautiful mirror in an arc on the wallpaper, that had been quite shabby in appearance. Slowly bit, by bit, Dorian had shared his dreams and intentions with sincere enthusiasm, inspired by Madeline's quiet, listening attitude that was someways quite similar to his favorite Aunt, but Dorothy was never so still, or staid as Madeleine was. Dorian had noticed an invitation written in familiar handwriting on Madeline's desk, and seeing where Dorian's eyes had landed, Madeline had carefully moved the papers on her desk so that Dorothy's clear handwriting was covered.

Sighing, lightly, and swinging his scarf over one shoulder, Dorian slowly walked out of the conservatory, into the bright, afternoon, and he found that his previously heavy mood was a little lighter now, the flowers and the company of the turtles had grounded him, as it usually did. Wild vines and ivy climbed the walls of Gardiner Hall and were shaken by a light breeze. Dorian saw a familiar figure slip through the wrought-iron gate, and begin to walk through the well-kept grounds. Smiling, Dorian walked slowly, towards Dorothy, who looked very efficient and fresh in her dark skirt and light blouse with narrow embroidery on lapels, in panels. A pale pink dyed straw hat shaded her face, and a colorful scarf was wrapped around her shoulders in a carefree, bohemian way. Dorothy said in her attentive warm way, " As there are severe petrol-shortage, I have surrendered my little red car to the war-effort, as of last month. Some Home Guards drive in it, with a special dispensation, so I walk, or drive on a bicycle. I came here today, because I think we have something more to discuss, you seem a bit peaky, too many late nights?"

Surprised, Dorian said, "No, only lot of harrowing meetings. Our last conversation was very thorough, and I got the impression that you did what you could towards her, at one time, or several times, unlike Adeline, or Papa." Dorothy glanced at the silhouette of the Hall, it bathed in light, she turned her back on the building as said softly, but fiercely, in a quoting tone of voice.

Perhaps long hence,

When I have passed away,

Some other feature, accent, thought like mine,

And bring some memory of your loves decline.

Then you may pause awhile and think "poor jade!"

And yeld a sigh to me – as a ample due,

Such a fleeting phantom-thought to me

But the whole life wherein my part was played;

And you amid its fitful masquerade

A thought – as I in your life I seem to be!

We all made mistakes by not talking openly with you when you were little, I admit to it, freely even if Adeline or Roy wont, but as you've noticed, over the years, openness isn't really Gardiner-style. I'm imploring, you dearest, focus on your own life and think carefully about what you want to do with it, especially now that you have some sense of how business-things are run, in all male-dominated cabinets, that still rule the known world, all over."

Dorian fluffed his curls and said a little bitterly, fingering his green scarf with red spots, " When I listen to Di or Nan's stories about their childhood in Ingelside, my heart fills with wonder that such a thing exists somewhere, other than in books or fairy tales. I've been thinking lately that if she hadn't died of that strain of influenza, what my life might have turned out to be, it's useless to think about that, it would be like shouting to the wind, without getting an answer, the current of Lethe separates us. Nan told me that I shouldn't take the contents of the diaries literally, but they are the only objects that tell something - concretely. Other memorabilia, like a few photos, and that painting and her dresses up in the shadowy attic, and jewelry, don't. Hall seems so bend sinister, somehow now, or perhaps it always was so. Do you know, I tried to join the Volunteer Training Corps in Kingsport after Walter left Kingsport to do his duty. I took all my certified medical papers to the local office where some man in uniform looked through them, the air was thick with bluish of smoke, a cheap cigar smelled in the air. I wanted to do my part even on the home front and in the daily exercises and drills. I would have been ready to sign Army Form V.4010 which was "Volunteer Force, Agreement under the Volunteer Act, 1916 – Drills and Training (Volunteers)" The wording on that form was so official solemn and exciting! But that man only looked at the forms and called another man with a doctor's coat to check me over in another room, and showed the doctor some of those papers. And then the man wrote a refusal form, two copies, one for me and one to the higher-ups of the local department, apparently. Is it possible that Papa's influence is so great?"

Dorothy, shuddered, at the thought of delicate Dorian in any uniform, carrying a gun, and walking extremely slowly, leaning his walkingsticks, in continuation of the troop, until he would have fallen to the ground, all strength ebbed away. Raising her eyes to the clear and so dear features of her nephew, she said, "I do not believe, so, no for those papers are quite clear."

Twenty minutes later, as she passed the bluish parlor, Adeline noticed Dorian and Dorothy having tea there, again, and she said in her cool style, " Dorothy, Laidies Aid will be arriving here soon, so unless you want to be involved in a constant debate about the budget. I suggest you and Dorian move elsewhere to continue your little chat, if you have not yet, finished it."

Dorothy, glanced at her elder sister and said "Actually, I have experience with budgets." Adeline said sharply, "The scale of this operation is a little different than what your circle is used to, besides everything has to be polished and classy, no blue stocking parades." Dorian noticed Dorothy's voice tighten just a touch as she replied, "If you ever thought that, why did you ask?"

A sharp smile crossed Adeline's reddened lips as she replied quietly, "Because after all, you are Gardiner." Dorothy stood up, nimbly, her skirt rustling, furiously, as she took one step towards her sister, for a moment it looked as if Dorothy was going to say something, but then she just nodded curtly to Adeline, embraced Dorian, her sensible heels were klicking for awhile, then it was silent in the wide hallways once more.

Dorian had barely escaped, rustling matrons worthy of the honor of the Kingsport Laidies Aid, a cavalcade of perfumes scenteced, vestibule hall, social hubbub resounded, as it always did on Wednesdays, every fortnight, ever since the war began, to the peace of his own room, walnut bookcases were glimmering faintly, in that moment, Dorian remembered tears that had flowed down Nan Blythe's delicate features, when she had read Walter's literary archives in the Perennial's premises. Dorian, in his somewhat clumsy way, had tried to comfort Nan, for he had tried to make tea, as Di had advised, the Ingelside way. A slight astonishment had flashed in Nan's dark eyes, and then she had said, "Oh, Dorian, you are very sweet, I am lucky to have such a friend, in these trying times." And as the sultry evening grew dark and the hum of Kingsport traffic died down, the sound of horses' hoofs, grew muted, Dorian had told a few anecdotes about Walter that even Di hadn't heard, as Nan had laughed a little ruefully and said, "He lives in our memories, still, and that's why he is never completely gone."

Dorian ruffled his curls, and with determination, he glanced at the stack of journals covered with bluish, shiny brocade. Softly he caressed them, and then he put them in the crate, he slid, crate in his wardrobe. There were clothes hanging on the hangers, a few smoking-jackets, in different colors, in the far-back, in upper self, almost buried under old and delicate shifts, there was something airy and spilling, so curiously Dorian pulled the garment out. It was petal pink, loose silk glowed, and Dorian turned it over, it appeared to be a skimpy dressing gown.

Painting of Valentine smiled at him, from the wall, reddish-blonde curls were artfully tousled, in becoming coiffure, studded with star-brust-like pins, that resembled eidelweis-flowers, couriously, around the painting's neck glistened the same double string of pearls that was now in his dresser drawer, and obeying a sudden innate impulse, Dorian opened the heavy velvet box, as he carelessly removed his cravat, and his cameo pin, as he touched the pearls, they felt very real, without thinking too much, Dorian carefully put the string of pearls around his neck, the weight of the jewelry was surprisingly heavy. Striped vest, and the open collared soft cotton shirt didn't seem to go well with the pearls, so he put on a silky dressing gown, as it seemed to be more proper thing to do, and with the combination of rustling soft silk and the weight of the string of pearls touching his skin, Dorian felt alive, as if anything were suddenly possible, how curious this sensation was.

On his desk was an open calendar, a few withered lilac and orchid flowers, were nestled in between inky pages, filled with notations. Last weekend of late August was marked with a red star. There were small stack of pocmarked letters, and proofs for Perennial. Dorian, after a long pause, took his beloved Hardy's collected poems from his overflowing bookshelf, in his hand, and began to leaf through them. He wanted to find that poem that Dorothy had quoted earlier. As so often before, Hardy held him spellbound, with his other hand he softly caressed the pearls, their sudden coolness had already subsided, and now they were the same temperature as his own skin. Outside verdant July twilight glowed, and the pigeons cooed, and the clouds glowed pale mauve.


Madeleine Dobson was filing, papers and index cards slipped into their places, into the heavy filing cabinet, which was full of innumerable small drawers, which had to be pulled properly from time to time, especially in damp weather. Only a few sworn regulars were present in the reading room, when Madeleine had gone to shelve reservations a moment earlier. A soft rising knock was heard, Madeleine startled, and dropped the ink bottle on the floor, as it shattered in small commonition, blood red ink spilled onto the honey-colored parquet, like a bloodstain, and Madeleine felt her pulse beat wildly, and she was aware that her hands were clammy, and a wild hope fluttered in her heart like a captive dove, as she cautiously turned and glanced to the dim doorway.

There was only the sound of raindrops pattering on the windowpanes, and out of the gloom slipped a slender figure, clad in an oversized raincoat. It was Isabelle. She entered with supple, almost gliding steps, remarking, "Well, it's cozy in here, there's a small tea-altar in the corner, but at least you have some kind of windows, even if they're narrow, and one can barely see the curtains under all those haphazard file folders." Madeleine glanced at the surrounding chaos, all around her, and said in markedly fond way. "If you want to be of help, make some tea, as I was planning to have some now, instead of making cheeky remarks, I'm sure your own alotted office nook isn't that much better, even if you would say otherwise." Isabelle sneaked over to the gas ring with her burgundy skirts swinging, and soon a soft clatter could be heard from teanook, scent of soft green jasmine tea spread to the every corner of the study.

Madeleine organized her papers, as Isabelle told light-hearted anecdotes, about her own work, the various co-eds students only occasionally straying into her path, except for those who were chasing Cooper prize, and wanted the latest statistics. The most common point of contention seemed to be the different shelving systems in the coffee corner, and the very slow re-arrangement of the famous Redmond alumni archives and catalogs received as donations. Madeleines desk was filled with folders and official-looking forms or colorful citation slips. Isabelle glanced over her shoulder and fingered the narrow amber beads around her neck.

A strong purple orchid tried to reach towards the light, on the window sill, its slender leaves trembled a little in the slight breeze, because the window was half open, fresh rain-scented air flowed into the study, and it mixed with the scent of jasmine tea, Madeleine's rose water, and ink. And nodding towards the flower, Isabelle inquired, "So you are able to keep flowers alive, I barely succeed with cacti, or callas, which nothing can kill. In fact, I water my cacti with leftover champagne, but only occasionally, because they too need to taste sweet life. And there's no need to talk about cacti being somehow too masculine, or phallic, which of course some varieties are, but not the ones I have, as you may remember."

Madeleine, smiled, nodded lightly, glancing at the orchid, as she said, "Dorothy's dear Dorian came here a couple of days ago, and he brought that orchid here, as a thank you, as I had helped him in one project, so it's fine for now, but in a couple of weeks the situation might be different." Isabelle, lifted a package wrapped in brown paper to the corner of the table, which when opened revealed a bunch of white and orange lilies. Madeleine's gaze lingered on the lilies, and some light feeling seemed momentarily to sparkle in the room, and she said, quietly, in a half choked voice, "I love lilies."

Isabelle, smiled at Madeleine, lightly, in one flowing movement, handing Madeleine a plate with broken biscuits, as she said "Happy birthday dearest." Madeleine, looked at her calendar, and then at the lilies, and at Isabelle, who was watching her with a wary, expectant look on her face, and then Madeleine said softly, "You didn't forget, but I did, time seems to run so fast every year, and anniversaries don't hold much weight anymore. " Madeleine glanced in Isabelle's direction, gone was the thin, billowing, burgundy silk that had covered the other woman in Dorothy's do. Instead, Isabelle was wearing a light cotton blouse, done in Butterick pattern, and a pleated, burgundy ankle-length skirt, and high heels that were a shade of nile green.

Isabelle crossed her ankles, and glanced amusedly at Madeleine, and poured more tea into the cups, as she said,"Lenie, penny for your thoughts?" Madeleine smiled and said, " They don't cost that much, if you really want to know I thought that color has always suited you well." Isabelle preened, a little like a cat stretching in the sun, and then she laughed lightly as she touched her finger to a petal of a glowing intense orange lily, and said perceptively, " Dorothy's dos are so important, because then we can and we dare to be together, in small moments in time, naturally." Isabelle, swept an unruly lock of hair behind Madeleine's ear, and said, "We had fun last time, didn't we."

Madeleine, only nodded, in faint way, as she briefly remembered that evening. The air in the salon had been tingling. Isabelle's sparkling laugh had been an invitation, as in the gloom of the salon several couples had retreated to privacy, in upper floor. Dorothy and Ernestine had danced, lingering, quietly longingly, they seemed to be deliberately dragging out the last waltz. Madeleine had recognized her state of being, a certain overexcitement that came from a stimulating evening, all her senses seemed to be quickened. Isabelle, had smiled at Madeleine, lightly, with charmingly ambiguous generosity, Madeleine had noticed how on the other side of the room, surfragett with an unfortunate haircut, she had slumped. The tantalizing notes of the waltz had quickened, and there was only slightly triumphant twinkle in Isabelle's eyes, as she had bent in a waltzing motion closer to Madeleine, and pressed a soft, playful kiss on her cheek, as she had spun lightly forward, and across light loose circle of swaying couples.

Helene's sonorous voice had been in slight whisper, as she had said, "Isabelle never changes, does she?" There had been a hint of nostalgia in pale, Scandinavian-looking woman's dark blue gaze. Helene, had nodded lightly, to Madeleine as she had walked lazily in her pale cream pantsuit across the cluttered salon. Helene had begun to converse in a low voice with the surfragette, and soon, intent and intimate discussion had resounded, it seemed that the topic of discussion was Emma Goldman's various essays and various phases of civic activism and direct anarcism, which was related to Goldman's June arrest in New York under the Espionage Act of 1917. Lurid headlines had read, "Anarchist and Unpatriotic Socialist Goldman Jailed, Two Years Hard Labor at Penitary Jail."

Madeleine, let out a light sigh, as she remarked somewhat mischievously, "You didn't keep your predatory instincts in check. Don't you ever get tired of collecting hearts." Isabelle, looked at her nails, the dark red polish of which was impeccable, and upon hearing Madeleine's words, she looked up at Madeleine with a half-exalted expression, which soon melted into a charmingly impish smile, as she said, "You have no reason to complain, I behaved impeccably, relatively speaking. Oh, what else is there to this life? I was put on earth to bring joy, and I intend to do so steadfastly. And it's not my fault if certain people get too attached. You were never like that, not ever. Apparently she left her invisible mark in you, at times I have tried to look for it, in the depths of your heart, there is a corner that is forever closed to me."

Madeleine looked up, and said slowly, "she sometimes brought me lilies, too, in a crumpled paper bag, in those occasions, her hair smelled like rain." Isabelle, half grimaced and said with her light cutting humor, "The rest of us are not as fortunate to encounter a great and all-conquering love, despite, family's inhibitions and interventions, that seems to be still unforgettable, years later. But isn't all love, and momentary bodily gratification is an illusion in its own way. Maybe the next generation can live more openly, unlike us. When I saw those girls at Dorothys, I thought maybe there is hope."

Jasmine tea started to taste too sharp, like bitter lees of regret, or like of old wistful dreams of yesterdays, so Madeleine poured jasmine-tea leaves away, as she changed it to malty Assam. The rain pattered on the ceiling, lilies were housed in a very bumpy silvery vase, their shadows were reflected very long on the faded wallpaper, as two old friends sat in silence, as slowly the halls of Redmonds Musical Societys Library emptied.


Then Isabelle said decisively, glancing at her watch, "Come on." Through rainy Kingsport, Isabelle and Madeleine walked, with decorous distance between them. In one street corner there was a slightly dilapidated house with yellow shutters. Its grand staircase was wide, and the staircase smelled of old damp stone, and banister was worked into the shape of lily flowers. Fourth floor, opened diagonally to the attic apartment whose bluish door, Isabelle knocked on.

After stepping over the threshold, that dim room was full of laughing people, and Madeleine looked at the mingling joyful varied colorfully dressed crowd as she said gruffly, "That's exactly why I didn't want a surprise party, and yet you've arranged it." Isabelle smiled and said, "Dorothy was going to arrange this for your workplace, in that elaborate concert hall, but I talked her out of it at the last minute."

The tea trays were going around, and there were several fluffy cacti on the windowsills, and candles, on each level. Madeleine laughed and said, "So you decided to sacrifice your own apartment for this little thing, huh?" Isabelle, glanced around and whispered, "Well, at least I can get all the people where I want them, for once, effortlessly." Beaming Dorothy rushed through crowd to Madeleine, and said, "Today you're not thinking about tomorrow's champagne headache."

Hushed silence spread, as Madeleine saw Helene playing the piano in the corner, and a ragged chorus of "Happy Birthday" rang out in multitudes, Madeleine felt tears welling up in her eyes, as she looked at her chosen family surrounding her, glamorous, flirtatious Isabelle, saucy Dorothy, and Ernestine, who whispered something in Dorothy's ear, fair, lofty Helene. The warmth of the crowd around Madeleine was like an intimate and surprising embrace.


And afterwards, in her rented home, in peace, in the grip of a small headache, Madeleine took out a piece of writing paper and, after thinking for a while, began to write, in her inky looping scrawl.


Humming Dvorak very careful under her breath, Alice walked away from Red Cross Offices, lingering, delicate melody, and the lyrics that spoke of the darkness of the forest and the freshness of nature, were nationalistic, but not in an alienating way. The memories evoked by the music were bittersweet, Alice's heart ached, knowing that perhaps in those woods, roads, and fields, her cousins could be walking, fighting, somewhere in different corners of the immeasurable vast empire, in different troops, dusty, hungry, perhaps even wounded. Her cousins, who had been running around with Alice's elder brothers showing their secret places, all-over their hometown, in years gone by. Now those four men, they were on opposite sides of this bloody, bloody, war.

Arriving at Primrose Hollow, Alice was greeted by Nan, who appeared to be reading a letter bearing strange stamps, so Alice inquired, cheerfully but cautiously, "Any new letters from Jerry, perhaps?" Nan looked up, and said, "No." Stationery rustled as Nan concentrated intently on her letters, there were various envelopes all around her. The living room was clean as usual, as always when it was Nan's turn to clean. The furniture shone, kitchen smelled of delicacies made from Marilla Cuthbert's recipes, on the hall table there was a pile of letters from Ingelside but no front post, there was also Di's notebook, and favorite tea mug with hand-painted bluebells, and two F.H. Burnett's novels A Lady of Quality and The Making of a Marchioness. Alice slipped upstairs, she noticed that the door to Di and Nan's room were open, and on Di's desk was a neat stack of notebooks with various bookmarks, a bird feather, light blue hair ribbon, a dried clover flower.

In the shadowy peace of her own room, Alice glanced at the note sealed in crimson varnish, as she tossed it carelessly on her dressing table, unopened on top of pile of librettos, containing Händel's Guilio Cesare, Agrippina, Ariodante, Theodora, and Delius, song of Sunsets. Two of Di's colorful silk ribbons were in a jumbled pile, with prints of future Perennial articles folded beneath them, held together by a greenish-gold Shelley volume.

Feeling restless, Alice rubbed her aching fingers as she glanced at her craft basket, which stood in the corner, its large shadow falling on the shiny parquet. Opening locked desk drawer, Alice glanced at the shimmering perfume bottle that resided in that drawer, and she took out a stack of her old diaries, and began to read them. A child's round handwriting that, over the years, turned into sleek Edwardian cursive. Alice had not exaggerated at all, writing to Una, playfully, but in all seriousness, of social pressure, to be Revered's child or one of those other old-fashioned doctor's children.

That status consciousness still partly ruled their lives, and it was the same with Blythe's but it didn't seem to bother them, except for beloved Walter in certain moments, or so Alice had surmised of his troubled silences, and brooding ways. At Lowbridge, Alice had learned to listen, and observe, not what the people around her were saying, for usually it was not interesting, but what they tried to hide, or what they left unsaid. Very often no one paid attention to the girl sewing in the corner of the living room in social situations, because often everyone else were sewing too, especially at Laidies Aid events, one sometimes heard interesting things when ladies gossiped about old scandals and the latest events uninhibitedly, only sprinkled with mild disapproval, or personal vendettas. People were not simple at all, and their motives were often manifold, and sometimes extremely simple. A desire for love, or social goodwill, or fame, and power, or all three, equally.

At the summer soiree at Dorothys Alice had glanced at Dorothy Gardiner's bookshelves, which, among the exotic and forbidden titles, also contained other interesting material, social inequality, and all kinds of activism, of which vibrant Persis Ford had mentioned in passing while visiting the Hollow, as Dorian had been utterly befuddled, in most lovely way.

In the shadowy corners of Hollow's garden, the mint was already fragrant, as well as the yellow, abundantly growing herb of grace. Alice had first deviated from acceptable paths, for love, second time, had been necessity, bloody shadows of that act sometimes still haunted her, third time had come when, Di had slinked into her room, stumbling in her grief, there had been sweet scent of poppy syrup enveloping her, in those grim dark days of only last September. Life was so frantic these days, if one compared it to the idyllic peaceful time before the war, where every gossip and old scandal had taken on extreme proportions in the communities of Glen and Lowbridge, when only achievements of the children of one's own village were read in the local papers, aloud as if they were fresh cinnamon buns straight from the oven.

Alice closed drawer of her desk with a click, as she sank into a rattan chair with a soft embroidered cover and lazily picked up closed note, it smelled faintly of rosewater, but she did not quite dare to open it, even if she so very much wanted to.

Alice still almost felt those narrow, cool long-fingered hands, glow of music, and the cold, bubbling taste of champagne on her lips, as Christine had nodded lightly to her. Shadows had danced on the walls of the hotel suite as Christine had snapped her bejeweled fingers, once impatiently, and said, "Remember Händel's softness, and brightness, and above all the restrained rage and doubt that is in the music."

Christine had leaned against the wall, casual carefree professionalism, and enlivened a few lingering moments, notes of Agrippina's aria, Pensieri, voi mi tormentate had glowed all the bitter, bitter ambition, and the emerging paranoia, had shone in the brilliant baroque multi-layeredness that was like bittersweet honey. After music had stopped, Alice had whispered, "Lovely." At that moment she didn't quite know whether she was talking about that pleasure the music had produced, or about Christine herself, that subtly dangerous and fatal feminine influence that she used completely openly, unlike any other woman that Alice had ever met.

Christine had glanced in Alice's direction, in her cat-like fashion, and circled her, appraisingly, as she had said, "Agrippina isn't for everyone, and neither is Carmen, but the two of them have always suited me, for some reason. The key to everything is breathing exercises, so let's start again. Now darling, remember, be soft, and pilant, well now it's going better, close your eyes, and don't let anything disturb your concentration, breathe, in and out, long and calmly, like waves, or the sea breeze."

Afterwards, in the peace of this same room, Di had remarked playfully and a little breathlessly, "I have no complaints at all, you've been in a delightfully experimental mood lately, a fact I selfishly take full advantage of." Alice had pressed her flushed face into the pillows, as she'd felt Di's nails gently touch her shoulder blades, and then the touch had become more demanding as Di had spun Alice around, pressing light kisses to carefully varied spots, with difficulty Alice had been able to stay still, and then it had not been successful at all. Di had smiled with joyful glee, twined with satisfaction when Alice's at this point very fraying control had finally snapped.


The door to Alice's room creaked open, the hinges needed oil, there were familiar footsteps coming up behind her as Di pressed a light kiss to her cheek and she said "Nan's reading some mysterious letter and my feet are all numb, or at least they feel like that. I've been standing all day, luckily I didn't wear heels today." Alice looked up, and said gently, "Have you been dealing with the printing press again, as you have stains of ink on your cheek." A slightly embarrassed startled expression rose in Di vivid's eyes, as she muttered, "Ah, that's why people looked at me for a long time, I imagined that it might be because Sherwood Publishing has sent to certain places proofs of autums-catalogue, which has my picture, but even though it's huge thing thing for me personally, it's nothing next to the news from the front. Did you hear that Brigadier Pershing has apparently revised his Army request figures upwards 'slightly' to 3,000,000 men, that is, more Americans are coming to the Western Front, at some point. On another news, I received a letter from Toronto, it was a bit somber in tone, which is not unusual, as Persis has a tendency to do so at times." Alice glanced in Di's direction with a smile and said softly, " If you write to her, send her my greetings, if it is not too srange to you. I happen to have a great way to relax, first get on the floor and then…"


Distracted and her concentration finally broken, Nan looked up from Faith's letter, which was a living, powerful epistle. Full of different stages of VAD training, and a very inspiring and romantic description of a gray and rainy day off in the London in the majestic splendor of Trafalgar Square. An uncontrollable commotion could be heard from upstairs, it felt like furniture was being dragged out of place, or there was a mild earthquake going on. Frowning, Nan walked to the bottom of the stairs, but then a very familiar silvery laugh rang in her ears. Nan packed letters on the table into her bag, and took her newest pair of half-knitted army socks, her draft letters, her diary, and decided to go for an evening walk, a long one.

Arriving at Swans Cove, Nan thought that perhaps it was possible that Jerry had received her latest package, unless the mail vessel had been torpedoed, for since the turn of January and February there had been occasional reports in the newspapers of Hun's unrestricted and totally immoral U-boat warfare, which every possible ship was hit, even neutral passenger ships were not spared, so it was quite possible that a ship could be floating in the deep waters of the Atlantic even now, destroyed, even if it was now July, with aid packages going to the front, and it was partly because of this horror image that Nan wrote as often as possible. Nan sat down on the bench, and watched farytale landscape, greenish-gold twilight began to fall, and in the last rays of light, she took Jerry's ruby from her neck, it sparkled and glistened in the light, like a drop of blood, heartblood, it was. Nan closed the stone in her fist, as she defiantly ravishing the hems of her rose-red dress, Nan declared to the sky, "He will return, he must return, to me, as a child I made promises to God, but I would do the same now. And I will. "


Christine Stuart Dawson, glanced at latest telegram that had arrived from Manitoba, light of the setting sun glinting on a photograph of her beloved dogs. And rubbing her temples, she remembered what Andrew's honorable, now thankfully long-dead mother had once said about a year after their socialite wedding, "My son wanted you, and now he has you, everyone has to make sacrifices. I expect children from this union, and if they don't come, it's not my son's fault, because he always does his duty."

Christine had said very calmly, "Andrew and I are in complete agreement, on this and other things. There are too many neckless little monsters in the world, anyway." Andrew's mother's face had turned purple and she had exclaimed, "that's simply most horrid thing, I've ever heard. Are you going to fill this old ancestral house with art- and music-nonsense, and dogs, that are ruining my great-grandmothers furniture?"

Christine had glanced through the window curtains at slender blonde Andrew tending the white and crimson roses in the garden, and she had said calmly, holding out her hand, in the light shimmering in the oval shaped diamond ring, "Exactly, like that."

And so it had happened, over the years Andrew and Christine's union had formed into a working partnership that was strong and sharp as steel wire, shared trips, and memories, several pets, and Andrew's award-winning roses.

And with a little smile, Christine opened one of the locked boxes, on the midnight blue velvet rested all the jewels she liked best, which Andrew had collected for her from his travels, as he had often remarked, "I always wanted a wife for whom jewels would be friends and not ornaments." Christine Stuart Dawson, looked at her little watch, when there was a knock at the door, and a little startled at the lateness of the hour, Christine slipped on her bare shoulders, a midnight blue robe a la francaise, and opened the door.


On the threshold stood, or rather swayed, Royal Gardiner, leaning against Christine's shoulder, muttering something unintelligible, as a crumpled paper dropped from his rumpled suit pocket onto the carpet. Annoyed, Christine shook Roy and said sharply, "Dear friend, I don't know how much brandy you've had, but I won't allow such behavior even from you." Royal looked up, and tried to articulate clearly, "Robert has fallen, a German sniper shot him, that message is from his wife. Apparently, the separation was not yet fully legal, even though Robert acted as if it had been."

Leaning back in an armchair, Royal looked around and said sheepishly, "Sorry, I've been drinking brandy all day, ever since I got the message." Christine, raised her eyebrows, and said quietly, "Understandable, under the circumstances. Do we know what other arrangements Robert might have made." Royal rubbed his face, and half sighed, "I'm not sure at all, he trusted his handlers steadfastly."

Royal remarked a little tiredly, "Adeline said your project is going quite well, or so she understood." Christine smiled a little, and there was something extremely cat-like about that smile, and Royal felt a chill creep up his back as Christine stretched, remarking, "Oh, it's so enjoyable to see things fall into place. You know, yourself, when you're chasing a deal, or contract, and you'll see which way the negotiations go."

A little shakily, Roy got up and drank two glasses of cold water, and Christine said in her admittedly ruthless style, "I suggest you sleep here in the guest room, because if you do not, Adeline will start a war on you if she finds you in this condition sleeping on the Hall carpet, or more likely on the lawn amid her flowers." Royal, gave Christine a grateful look, and said, bitterly, "You wouldn't like Adeline half so much if she were your sister, I suppose." Christine, was in process combing her hair calmly, just as Valentine had done, that inherently feminine gesture was surprisingly painful, Roy noticed, as Christine, said deceptively gently, "Addie is lovely, in small doses, as, all of you various Gardiners, are ."


One bright morning in mid-July, from Howard's house in the Upper Glen came a piercing, clear scream, its register overflowing with unspeakable terror, and that scream froze the mail carrier, who was going to take a larger haul of mail to Ingelside.

And three days later, Betty Meade whispered to Rilla Blythe, after the weekly meeting of the Glen Red Cross Youth Society, "Did you notice that Irene Howard wasn't singing a solo yesterday at all. I passed by her house today, and her window was closed and the curtains drawn. Clive Howard walks in his red VTC armband, decorating his homespun uniform, down the streets of Glen, head down, not at all as cheerful, and flirtatious as usual, remarkable. Because one can usually trust that the Howard siblings are true to form." Una Meredith tipped her teacup, onto the table, with a nervous little movement, but none of the girls sitting in the clubhouse noticed, and soon the conversation changed direction when Olive Kirk remarked to Miranda Milgrave, "I guess we can take turns doing Eats at these meetings, but no way Eeels, Miranda , not anymore, the first time was already too much, perhaps if we can vote it?"