“She had a huge kite and she was untangling the string. She said, ‘Hold this, and don’t move,’ and I held it and every muscle in my body as still as stone for fear of disappointing her. The smile stayed locked on my face, like rigor mortis, like a happy corpse. I did exactly as she asked, and Dulcie liked that. When she had finished untying the knots, she let me come with her to fly it—to watch while she flew it, at least. I can still feel the ache in my neck from looking up as it turned on the wind, free as a bird and still tied to her, the strings invisible, so it looked like it was just her deft hands anchoring it, strong and heavy, to the ground. For days afterward, I kept seeing her hands, and the look on her face, and the kite whipping and spinning above her. Pure magic.” He smiled. “Pure magic.”

He got up and went to a drawer in his bedroom and pulled out a box. His feet shuffled on the floorboards like they were tied together at the ankles. Such slow, small steps. He brought the box back to us and opened it and filled our hands with old photos, some black and white, some color, paled with age. The woman from the painting, her whole face, her wide smile. And Henry. Young and dark and clean-shaven, with fierce eyes. He hardly registered the camera. He was almost always looking at her.

Novo was quiet, and ran his fingers over their faces, and frowned.

“After that, we were never apart,” Henry said.

“Really?” I said.