The cherry tree at the front door is just budding. Father has had it grafted so the blooms will vary from one side of the tree to the other, and this year, the graft having taken and aged, they hope to have some red cherries along with the usual black.

Rosalie remembers how often she used to climb that tree. It was a balcony from which Juliet’s speeches could be shouted down to Romeo. But there was a time when she was seated on a branch, her skirts rucked up, eating all the ripe cherries she could reach. Birds above her were doing the same, and making a joyful noise until suddenly they weren’t. It took Rosalie a moment to notice how quiet the tree had become. She looked up and a large snake was twisting down the trunk in her direction, its tongue protruding as if it could already taste her. Rosalie nearly fell in her haste to get down.

“It was probably perfectly harmless,” Mother said, but Rosalie knows better. Even in the old familiar places, in places you know and love, in your very home, peril is hidden like a serpent in the leaves.

There’s a bird in the tree now, a jay, who turns sideways to pin her with a glassy eye. This is not the kind of bluebird she meant, but it is blue, so it’s an unclear omen in the end.

iv

The letters to Father are stuffed into the chaos of papers on his desk, amidst the wigs, the hats, the bills, the journals, account books, and press clippings. Books by Dante, Shelley, Torquato Tasso. Shakespeare lies open, facedown on the clutter.

The letter from Father, Mother reads to herself and then reads again aloud to Rosalie and June. She sits in one of the hard ladder-back chairs, her belly resting on her knees. Even at midday, the windows are too small for the room to be bright. Mother holds the letter right up to her face.

About Charleston, he writes: “There is a greater suavity of manners than can be found in the Northern States—and were it not for the unnecessary and wicked treatment of the colored people the Carolinians would have few blemishes.”

He is likewise impressed with the quality of the fruits and vegetables. The weather, he says, is wonderful, not too hot for an audience, not too cold for a night on the town. He boasts of the large turnout for his first Othello. He says he got fine reviews.

And then he includes this quote from a letter to the editor: “We consider him not only as the ornament and glory, but the victim of his profession.” Mother’s eyes flick to Rosalie. June is oblivious, but Rosalie understands her instantly. It’s an odd quote and Mother is wondering what he means by including it.