“Like this.” He spoke to the back of my head and moved my arm with his hand so I could feel the easy motion of my arm bent and then extending with the throw, while his hand at my waist pushed me forward and backward in a kind of windmill dance to set my arm in steady motion.

“Now. What is it you want to aim for?”

“Susannah,” I said, smiling, for there she was, standing stock-still, having turned around to see perhaps what we did behind, and seeing our two figures so, she had stopped dead in her paces. Just then, she began to wave. Gilroy dropped his face to mine as if he sighted with my eyes. He stood so close, his cheek nearly rested on mine, and his whiskers grazed my own chin.

“Yes. That is good. She is the most perfect of targets.” But he did not move his face from mine, and I could feel the bunch of his cheek as he smiled.

I put his hand from off my waist. “You aim to disadvantage me,” I said.

“Nay”—he took a step back—“never.”

I looked at him once, then down at the stones beneath my feet, and then up again at Susannah now advancing toward us back down the beach. I took three running steps forward, then hurled as hard as I could, my body following the arc of the stone; and when it fell, I heard the clatter on its brothers like applause. Susannah stopped again, and I could see she frowned.

I cupped my hands around my mouth and called, “Susannah!” but the wind stole half her name, and unhearing, she gave her beautiful head a toss and continued advancing on our position.

“You might have hit me!” she said as she reached us.

I laughed and pointed to Mr. Gilroy. “You must thank him for that.”

And oh, such a tumult crossed over Susannah’s features then as made the ocean lakelike by compare!

Mr. Thomas had watched the whole fandango and approached behind Susannah. “Best watch how much range you give a lady, Gilroy—teaching her to throw is kin to putting the apple into Eve’s plump hands.”

Our cousin laughed. “Sure enough, what you say is true.”

“That is the kind of thing men like to say to ease themselves of worry,” I said lightly, “but the serpent in the garden was a fiction.”

“A fiction? Ha! Created by whom, pray?” Susannah laughed a little edgily.

“Eve,” I answered.

“Eve!” My sister meant to gather the men into her mockery.

“I am not speaking to amuse you,” I replied, suddenly testy.

Mr. Thomas cleared his throat and waited for me to continue.

“The serpent in the garden was Eve’s first fiction.”

“I see,” said Mr. Gilroy doubtfully.