pocket) what the boy intended to do about this.
Violet moved her mouth, as though in answer, but no answer came out. She composed herself. "If he loves her," she said, "then . . ."
"He may," Mr. Flowers said. "But he says—she says he says—that there's someone else, someone with, well, a prior claim, someone . . ."
"He's promised to another," Mrs. Flowers said. "Who's also, well."
"Amy Meadows?" Violet said.
"No, no. That wasn't the name. Was that the name?"
Mr. Flowers coughed. "Happiness wasn't sure, exactly. There might be . . . more than one."
Violet could only say "Oh dear, oh dear," feeling deeply their consternation, their brave effort not to censure, and having no idea how to answer them. They looked at her with hope, hope that she would say something that would fit all this too into the drama they perceived. But in the end she could only say, in a tiny voice, with a desperate smile, "Well, I suppose it's not the first time it ever happened in the world."
"Not the first time?"
"I mean not the first time."
Their hearts leapt up. She did know: she knew precedents for this. What could they be? Krishna fluting, seed-scattering, spiritincarnating—avatars——what? Something they had no inkling of? Yes, brighter and stranger than they could know. "Not the first time," said Mr. Flowers, his unlined brow raised. "Yes."
"Is it," said Mrs. Flowers, almost whispering, "part of the Tale?"
"Is what? Oh, yes," Violet said, lost in thought. What had become of Amy? What on earth was August up to? Where had he found the daring to break girls' hearts? A dread came over her. "Only I didn't know this, I never suspected. . . . Oh, August," she said, and bowed her head. Was this their doing? How could she know? Could she ask him? Would his answer tell her?
Seeing her so lost, Mr. Flowers leaned forward. "We never, never meant to burden you," he said. "It wasn't—it wasn't that we didn't think, that we weren't sure it wasn't, or wouldn't be, all right. Happiness doesn't blame him, I mean it's not that."
"No," said Mrs. Flowers, and put her hand gently on Violet's arm. "We didn't want anything. It wasn't that. A new spirit is always a joy. She'll be ours."
"Maybe," Violet said, "it'll be clearer later."
"I'm sure," Mrs. Flowers said. "It is, it is part of the Tale."
But Violet had seen that it would not be clearer later. The Tale: yes, this was part of the. Tale, but she had suddenly seen, as a person alone in a room reading or working at the end of day sees, as she raises her eyes from work that has for some reason grown obscure and difficult, that evening has come, and that's the reason; and that it would long grow darker before it lightened.
"Please," she said, "have tea. We'll light the lights. Stay awhile."
Outside she could hear—they could all hear—a car, chugging steadily toward the house. It slowed as it approached the drive—its voice was distinct and regular, like the crickets'—and changed gears like changing its mind, and chugged onward.
How long is the Tale? she had asked, and Mrs. Underhill had said: you and your children and your children's children will all be buried before that Tale's all told.
She took hold of the lamp cord, but for a moment didn't pull it. What had she done? Was this her fault, because she hadn't believed the Tale could be so long? It was. She would change. She would correct what she could, if there were time. There must be time. She pulled the cord, which made the windows night, and the room a room.
The Last Day of August
The enormous moon which August had taken Margaret Juniper out to see rise had risen, though they hadn't noticed its ascent. The harvest moon, August had insisted this was, and had sung a song about it to Marge as they sped along; but it wasn't the harvest moon, amber and huge and plenteous as it was, that would be next month's; this was only the last day of August.
Its light was on them. They could look at it now, August was too dazed and replete to do anything else, even to comfort Marge who wept quietly—perhaps, who could tell, even happily—beside him. He couldn't speak. He wondered if he would ever speak again, except to invite, except to propose. Maybe if he kept his mouth shut . . . But he knew he wouldn't.
Marge raised a moonlit hand, and stroked