She turns the flame down and starts to flip each piece of bacon. The meat shrivels into itself, dancing on the grease and popping. Behind her, Wilson’s mother is asking Isabelle if she’d like to visit the horses again this morning when the vet comes to look at Adrien’s leg. There’s a mare who’s expecting, too, she is saying, and if Isabelle comes back to visit in the spring she can name the foal. If she’s speaking by then, Ruth thinks bitterly, still standing over the bacon though she has already flipped every piece. What is her problem? she thinks. Why the cynicism? Why should part of her want Isabelle to be distraught, except for her suspicion that the only reason she isn’t distraught is that her grandmother was somehow able to soothe her while Ruth and Wilson were out searching in the dark and cold?

But she is being silly, she tells herself. Isabelle is taking the news about Maggie well, and no matter what the reason, that is all she can ask. She clears her throat and turns around. “That’s a real honor, Belle,” she says, brightly, “to name a foal.”

Isabelle smiles.

“I once let your father name a foal. And do you know what he chose?” There is a pause. Wilson’s mother sits forward.

“My goodness!” The three women turn. Wilson is in the doorway, a large box under his arm. “Early birds! I thought you’d all still just be getting up.”

Ruth purses her lips. “You’re the early bird,” she says.

“I didn’t want to wake you.” Wilson crosses to the table and sets the box down. “I’ve been in the closet upstairs.” He sits down. “Found some things.”

“Just a second, Wilson,” Ruth says. “Your mother was in the middle of saying something.”

“I beg your pardon,” Wilson says. “Excuse me, Mother, go ahead.”

“Well, I was just telling Ruth and Isabelle about how you named Mussolini.”

“Mussolini?” Ruth’s laugh is genuine. “You named a horse Mussolini?”

“I was six,” Wilson says.

“Horribly inappropriate, but there we had it. Mussolini!”

“Do you know who Mussolini is, Belle?” Wilson glances at Isabelle as he pours himself a cup of tea.

“Of course she does, Wil. I’ve nearly bought the bookstore out of books on World War Two.”

“That’s right,” Wilson says. “Of course. I guess I was still thinking of the Roman Empire kick.” He looks at his mother. “Isabelle likes to read up on things pretty thoroughly,” he explains.

Ruth looks at her husband. “Kick?”

“Yes, dear,” Eleanor says. “I remember when it was that poet, that Emily Dickinson, and I found that old biography at Chamber’s. Wonderful place, Chamber’s. Goodness, I did send it, didn’t I?”

Isabelle nods.