Many of Father’s papers, playbills, reviews, mementoes of various sorts, and, best of all, letters remain in trunks in the attic of the Exeter house. The letters Father wrote are scattered over the globe, but the ones written to him are neatly organized, tied in bundles according to date. What history those trunks contain! Asia and John tell Mother that they’re writing a book. She seems to approve. They ask her to bring the trunks to the farm when she next goes to town and she promises to do so.

On the day this finally happens, John and Asia have ridden out to the rocks at Deer Creek, a tributary of the Susquehanna River. In years past, tournaments with armor and tilting have been held here. June and Rosalie attended these as children. John does so now.

Asia is riding without a saddle yet not astride. This takes concentration and balance, particularly at the trot, but Asia has these things to spare. She leans into Fanny’s neck. The way Fanny smells is just about Asia’s favorite thing in the world.

John’s horse is also black, a fast colt named Cola di Rienzi after the Roman dictator, or more accurately after Cola as romanticized by Edward Bulwer-Lytton and Richard Wagner.

Unexpectedly, the Booths have the popular spot all to themselves. Asia strips off her stockings, hoists her skirts, and wades. Some of the rocks shift about as she steps on them. There is always the thrilling chance she might fall in. The heat and humidity are so high today, she almost wishes for it. She lets her hem dip, an inch, then two.

John bends from the waist, submerging his entire head. He stands again, shakes like a dog. They sit together on a rock in the shade. The water that drips from John’s hair onto his shirt evaporates quickly.

They talk about their futures. John says that he wants to do something important, something with weight and consequence, something that will leave a mark. Asia can have no such hopes, but she is excited to think that someone might read the book about Father. In her own small way, she wishes to add esteem to the Booth name. John is not so interested in that. “No,” he says, “I want to be known for something more than simply being Father’s son.”

The creek is clear right through to the bottom, a wavering lens that makes the submerged stones oscillate in size. The sun and the sound of the nearby waterfall are lulling Asia to sleep. “ ‘Men at some time are masters of their fates,’ ” John says, thinking perhaps again of the gypsy’s curse. And then, “Did you ever think that growing up so steeped in Shakespeare’s plays has left its mark on us? That maybe our dreams are bigger than other people’s? I know I can’t be just a farmer. I can’t be buried my whole life out here where nothing ever happens.”