Susannah flushed. “Oh, that leaf is inconsequential.”

“Then why press it into your book?” Our cousin was curious, and he held the leaf up to the lamp flickering upon the wall above Susannah’s head.

“Yes, Sue. Of what is the leaf a representative?”

“Of a walk I took, that is all.”

“Autumn, I’d say, by the mixed coloring,” Mr. Thomas mused.

“Yes. It was the eleventh of September to be exact.”

“Ah,” remarked Hayden Gilroy. “Three days after I arrived.”

Susannah bent her head, letting the shadow hide her cheek.

“And what does it signify, then?” I pursued.

“Autumn,” she murmured, lightly pressing her palm against the ticket pasted firm upon the black page.

“Autumn,” I mused aloud. “How many words must I use for that one? What story might I tell?”

“A walk in the woods,” said Mr. Thomas.

“The cool and damp—” George began.

“Upon a corner of the lawn,” I cut in, “under the branches of the spreading birch tree, an old man waited in the dappled color, watching as a village child progressed to where he sat, welcome as a small breeze, her petticoats blowing about her chubby ankles.” I paused.

“And how are those words better than the leaf to say autumn?” Susannah asked before I could begin again.

“A leaf is too private a system of expression,” Mr. Thomas put in unexpectedly.

“Yet, there is no strain in regarding a leaf,” Mr. Gilroy responded.

“That story sounded fairly easy upon the ears, I’d say.” George laughed. “Go on, Nell.”

“Nay. Susannah is right.” I crossed my arms, suddenly melancholy. “My words are no better for telling.”

And though he asked once more, I remained silent. Silent as George and Hayden and Susannah began to chat again about another page in her book. Silent, and melancholy as the tomb. What were my words after all? For every leaf Susannah found and pasted, I’d need to write pages upon pages—and still who would ever know who we had been? Below my companions’ chatter, below the fire’s pop, came the steady ticking of that clock upon the mantel. I looked at the flash of color in Susannah’s cheek now raised to Cousin Gilroy’s as he spoke, George rocking back upon his heels, impatient somehow. The foghorn tined the night. Here were we all, casting after our own dooms with miniature rods. Nothing can represent us—nothing satisfy.

(35 drops)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN