“Of course not.” Intuition, it’s kicking in. I’ve never felt it so strongly in my whole life. I need to be the glue for them, set the tone. I have things to do, a reason for being. “Mind if I help myself to a pint?”

“As many as you need, milady; that’s how things work on the Day!” Brian’s face is so wide open with relief that I think for a moment he’s going to give me a hug. Instead he turns to Ian Pike and shouts, “First pull of the Breakwell Bitter for our Lady of Lute!”

“And a fair lady she be!” Ian shouts back.

Again I’m struck by the strange vertigo of not knowing what’s spontaneous and what’s a tradition lost in translation. It hardly matters—it’s happening now and it feels like it’s rippling through time, so it’s both. This instant is everything that has ever happened, this pour, the bubbles and froth, the light through the ale, the discolored shadow it casts on the lawn.

It’s a party. This is all one big, marvelous, horrifying party, and I’m the hostess.

I lift my pint glass in a silent toast, and all around me, my neighbors raise their own with wordless shouts. They were watching, waiting for me to do it. I move, and they move. I hesitate for a beat before sipping, remembering that it’s heady stuff. Even breathing it in makes my head spin. Have I eaten today? Not much. Not anything. I’ve sipped neglected lukewarm tea. But I sense eyes on me. If I’m one of them, I will finish this pint down to the foam residue, and I have to be one of them. It’s the condition of my survival.

I don’t know that, but I feel it. What was sacrificed back there was the Nina who wasn’t useful, who was still stuck in the closet in Florida with her sister’s knees digging into her chest. That Nina’s head was crushed by the Shining Ones, and what’s left of me has a job to do.

I drink, they drink, we all relax, the world gets sunnier, blurrier, sharper, and duller at once—sharper in the sunrays and the smiles, duller where it hurts. I’ve drunk half this pint in one sip, too fast, but no matter. It’s not like I can choke on it.

I won’t die today, will I? The island made its decision. Or maybe it was simply delayed in that first attempt and is content now to wait. I cannot think about it—where are the children? I spin toward the kitchen, and all around me, others turn. The people of Lute walk in a spiral around the lawn, don’t they? There are strings connecting me to all of them. I am the center.