“You are nineteen—barely,” Sarah said.

“I am a hundred, and nothing has ever happened in Savannah, nor ever will. How can you stand it, Sarah? How can you sit there sewing as if it were your destiny, when we are at the time of life that should be gay and full of enchantment?”

“I don’t require enchantment,” Sarah said. “Only a little sense now and then—and ice in summer.”

“Girls.” Penelope was back from her latest cricket-hopping tour of the downstairs. “They are almost done in the kitchen, and I have told them nothing more is required. Do you want anything, either of you?” She looked briefly at each, and when neither spoke, she continued, “If it would only rain. I have my headache. I know it’s from not raining. If it would rain, my head would run clear as spring water. It always does when the air is light. When the air is heavy, as it so often is from April right on to November, then I am heavy too. I shall go to my room and try to distract myself by remembering the first bars of every opera I have ever heard sung.”

“Is there anything I can do for you, Aunt Pea?” Sarah asked.

“No, dear child. Only see that your sister does not fly to the moon. I count on you. Good night, and I pray that neither of you is ever afflicted with my terrible headaches, although they do say the Lord sends trials to those He loves.”

Sarah rose, holding her embroidery, and kissed her aunt on the cheek. “Good night, Aunt Pea.”

Lauretta kissed the other cheek and echoed her sister’s “Good night, Aunt Pea,” saying it with a modesty that from her was almost a mockery. They waited until the aunt had gone upstairs and they heard her door close before they relaxed their expressions. Sarah sat down again. The clock in the hallway chimed its full-hour cycle of simple melodies and then sounded nine strokes. Lauretta turned to the sound at the last stroke and curtsied.

“Now guess,” she then said to her sister, “guess what I am—” She broke off as Clarice entered from the dining room.

Clarice said, “Miss Pea say that’s all for tonight. Is she gone to bed?”

“To her room,” Sarah said. “She has one of her headaches.”

“Poor soul. I am sometimes similarly afflicted,” Clarice said. “It happens to those of us with the nervous temperament. Is there anything you want, before I go get off my feet?”

“No, thank you, Clarice. Good night,” Sara said. "Rest well.”

“Good night. I’ll try, although—”

As Clarice, shaking her head, went back through the dining room to the kitchen and her room beyond it, where her daughter Ricey had just gone, Lauretta said in her bright, mocking way, “Good night. And that is the end of the world. Nothing happened, but good night, and selah.”