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.”

It’s so normal for Asia to dream for John instead of herself that she doesn’t even notice doing it. A book about Father doesn’t strike her as a big dream. But John, of course, John will be extraordinary.

They return home, contented, logy with sun, water, horse, and dreams. To her surprise, Asia sees smoke coming from the chimney. She points this out to John. The day is so hot. It makes no sense.

They send the horses to the stable and go inside. There they find Mother, red and sweating in the sweltering room. She’s pulled her chair next to the fireplace. Father’s trunks are open, the bundles of letters piled about Mother’s black skirts. She is reading every letter. And then, when she finishes, Mother is feeding every letter into the fire.

vi

Nothing Asia or John can say stops the slaughter. Asia pleads, she shouts. She sobs in her fury and her disappointment. There, literally up in smoke, goes her chance to be someone more than what she is. “Leave us something,” she begs and so Mother begins to tear off the signatures—Tom Flynn, Robert Elliston, the famous blackface performer Daddy Rice—and hand these to Asia prior to burning the letters to which they were attached. The only thing these signatures offer is the certainty that a fascinating wealth of information is now ash. “I will never forgive you,” Asia tells Mother and she means it as only Asia can. She has an unforgiving heart, Shylock’s heart, John once told her, and she wishes it weren’t true, but knows that it is. She may let go, she may move past, but she never will forgive.

For several days, the only person she talks to is John. If Mother enters a room, Asia immediately quits it. John is less devastated—he has other dreams to sustain him—but equally angry. “It was a kind of murder,” John says, which is exactly what Asia also thinks. “A homicidal mania.”