Isabelle turns back to the bird and puts her finger through the bars of the cage to touch his tail.

“It can speak,” Wilson goes on. “He can say his name. Gilbert.” He crouches beside Isabelle. “Gilbert,” he says. “Gilbert. Gilbert. Gilbert.” The bird pauses and cocks his head. “Gilbert. Gilbert.” Wilson takes a breath. “Oh well,” he says. He stands.

“Where do you think your mother is?” Ruth says. She has lifted a Christmas card from Wilson’s brother’s family from the table. “We haven’t gotten this one yet,” she remarks.

“I don’t know,” Wilson says. “I thought she’d be here, but”—he looks at his watch—“she could still be with the horses.”

“The horses, Wil? I thought you’d gotten someone to do that for her.”

Wilson shakes his head. “I had.”

“And?”

Wilson shrugs. “The woman ‘didn’t understand the horses,’ according to my mother.”

“Well, maybe you ought to go down there,” Ruth says. “It’s icy, you know, she could fall and break her hip again.”

Wilson turns to Isabelle. “Do you want to go see the horses, Isabelle?” She looks up from Gilbert and nods. He turns to Ruth. “Shall we?” he says.

“You go,” she says. “I’ll stay here with the dog. Maybe I’ll start tea. Your mother is going to want tea, isn’t she?”

“I’d assume so,” Wilson says. He takes a step toward the doorway and then turns around. “You sure?”

Ruth nods rigorously, as if to reassure him, Wilson thinks. He frowns.

“Really,” she says brightly. “Go, go!”

“We’ll be back,” Wilson says.

Dusk has gotten deeper, and the driveway is icy; it makes him uneasy to think of his mother making this trek to the stables alone. Across a blue field of snow Wilson can see the barn lights glowing, and he can imagine his mother inside, her white hair bound, her fingers bare and raw and numb against the horses’ noses as she strokes them, speaking to each one as she passes, he is sure, a dog or two at her feet, a cat in the rafters. He breathes in deeply and turns around to look for Isabelle behind him. He extends his hand. She gives him her fist; she has pulled her fingers up into her gloves. Behind them, the windows of the house are lighting up one by one, as Ruth wanders from room to room turning on the lights while she waits for the kettle to boil.

Isabelle has cut each half of her English muffin into fourths. On one piece she has spread raspberry jam, on another clear honey, and on another clouded honey, and on yet another marmalade. The raspberry has been the best, so far. She sits forward and puts the marmalade in its place and gives the lazy Susan a little spin to see what her other options are. The blackberry jam she hasn’t yet used; this she takes and spreads on another bit of muffin.

“Did you want another egg, Isabelle?”