It was not a night of moon and stars. The thick, heavy clouds that Penelope had hoped would bring rain and relieve her headache lay over the city as they had done all day long, and might tomorrow, unless a wind blew in from the sea. Not knowing what to do, Sarah went out into the front garden and sat down on a stone bench beside the sun dial. After ten minutes she could see through the dark like a cat. The nearest light was at the intersection where the pump and the oil lamp were, but she could see neither from where she sat.

It seemed an hour, but it was little more than half that before Lauretta returned. When Sarah rose from her seat, Lauretta halted on the path, startled. Then she recognized Sarah and kissed her on the cheek and said, “Don’t ask me anything, and promise me you will honor my confidence. I am in Paradise!”

Together they walked into the house. Sarah shut the door behind them and latched it. Each lighted a candle, and Sarah blew out the last lamp, carefully waiting until the red portion of the wick went black. With the final smoke of the lamp in their nostrils and the newly lighted candles in their hands, the girls made their way upstairs. They parted at the door of Lauretta’s bedroom, with a quick kiss on the cheek, each to the other, and restrained agitation.

Sarah set her candle down on the bureau and opened the curtains which Ricey had closed earlier that evening while her mother finished the kitchen work. The candle guttered and went out, and Sarah decided against lighting it again. A few moments later the candle smell was gone, and her eyes were again used to the dark. She undressed and put on her nightgown and stood at the open window brushing her hair. And gradually she grew calm. She had paid her dues of being Lauretta’s sister and Aunt Pea’s niece. She loved them dearly, but it was good to be alone now and be only herself.

As she brushed her hair, the curtains billowed with a sudden breeze, then blew into the room with such force as to overturn a small piecrust table. She left it where it fell. There had been nothing on it but a book. Without any more warning, lightning flashed, and seconds later thunder boomed and shook the room as if that room were its single object. And the rain fell, at first violently, and driven by the wind. Then wind and rain assumed a calmer, gentler attitude. When Sarah got into bed, she did so without closing her shutters, and she hoped that in her sleep, Aunt Pea’s head would lighten even as the air did so.

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