Now he’s the sun around which the family revolves, everyone acutely aware of how close they came to losing him again. He seems tired, but contented, two states he seldom visits. He’s always had an easy, comfortable friendship with June, and Edwin is anxious that everything that can be done is done. His sisters make a pet of him, his nieces crowd his room for as long as they’re allowed. A rocking chair is brought into the bedroom for Mother so that she can sit in the dark, watching him sleep. Such a rare gift to know exactly where he is.

The day he comes down to breakfast is celebrated with constant fussing at him to eat more. He used to be so hale.

He spends his first day of returned health writing letters to various young women who have probably missed hearing from him. It takes the whole of the day and much of the night as he wants these to rhyme. June is amused by his agonies of composition until John wakes him for help with spelling and word choice. But in the light of morning, even that seems funny. All goes swimmingly for three whole days. And then John and Edwin have a terrible fight.

It starts at breakfast with everyone there to witness it. John’s chair has been pushed into a little puddle of sunshine as Mother wants him to put some color back in his cheeks. He blinks sleepily. Molly has begged the cook for a bread pudding with currants and the kitchen is filled with the familiar smell of scalded milk. They are all tucking in when Edwin mentions that he plans to vote for Lincoln’s reelection. He’s never voted in an election before. He’s proud of this remarkable display of civic responsibility.

John’s response is immediate. “You’ll see Lincoln crowned king and have only yourself to blame.”

Edwin started the fight. John escalates it.

“That baboon has no right to the presidency.” John is already shouting. He’s not well enough for such passions. Asia puts a hand on his shoulder and he slaps her off. “His pedigree, his coarse, low jokes, his vulgar similes . . .”

Edwin starts to respond and John raises his hand. He’s not done yet. He will not be interrupted. “And he’s a mere puppet of the North. Greater minds than his play on his overweening vanities. People who want to crush out slavery by any means—robbery, rapine, slaughter, and bought armies—makes no difference to them. People without honor and goodness.” It’s a speech. Clearly he’s given it before.

Rosalie rises and takes Molly and Edwina out of the room. They do not go silently. “No,” Molly says firmly, “I want to see,” but Rosalie has the sleeve of her dress gripped in her hand and is not stopping. “No!” says Molly.

Edwina echoes her. “No! No!”