Lilian considered the people around her in Boston, people she knew, people she didn’t, walking up and down Beacon Street or Tremont Street or even their own Fairfield Street, and none of them revealed anything of what was going on inside. Either there was zero going on, which she did not believe, life was not like that, or they were carrying themselves with great dignity, being very brave, putting their feelings in one hidden place and the rest of themselves out in life. What amazed her was how seamlessly they managed it.

She had watched her mother’s face below the seashell roll of hair while she straightened silverware in the sideboard, and could fathom none of the thoughts playing behind the shallow features. From a little window she’d spied on her father down on the back lawn, hands set in his pockets, on his way to discuss mulch with the gardener. But what was on his mind when he picked up a spindly branch and tossed it over the wall to Mrs. Youngman’s and stood there and stared after it? Who could have said? And what of the milk delivery man who clattered white bottles in the wire holder? He had pocked cheeks, no eyelashes, and he hitched up his belt when he talked to Rosie.

There was life inside all of them and yet how secretly they kept it. She knew how difficult it was to do, and chances were if it was difficult, it was a good thing. She would learn to be the way they were and not show what was going on inside, not because it was the way everyone seemed, but because it was brave.

A dark lozenge with two ears appeared below her at the roof’s edge. Arthur crawled up on all fours and sat next to his sister.

I was thinking about the boys, Lilian said, setting her jaw. She had a chin like a block, with a cleft in it, and dark eyes set off by flashing whites.

I’ll be over there soon, said Arthur, his profile with an air of entitlement. As soon as he turned seventeen he was enlisting. Get some real material. Arthur had recently decided he was going to be a writer, like Oscar Wilde or Ambrose Bierce. Lilian could never have been an artist; her concerns were far too trivial. Arthur was the artistic one, the one who, when he gazed out at the night, saw colossal, universal things. While she didn’t know any artists in person, she’d read about them and based her opinions on that.

What time is it? Arthur started up suddenly. He was like the fog, appearing out of nowhere, never able to stay still, and like the fog tending to obscure things.

Past nine.