She went toward it. Ten steps, twenty, and there it was, the big house, revealed through a torn curtain of wind-shattered snow, and a light there, the light of the back porch and the shadow of a figure at the chopping block, a man raising a sledgehammer to drive an iron spike into a round of wood. Somebody out there splitting wood against the dwindling of the fire, which must have burned down to coals by now. And who was it? Fitz? Tim? She came closer, all in white, just as Tim had wanted, a bride of the night. Hurrying, she shuffled across the yard and into the pool of light and saw that it was Ken there, splitting wood for the fire that would blaze up in a minute and warm her all the way through, flesh and tendons and bones and her feet that were like blocks of ice.

In the next minute she was there, in his arms, clutching him to her. “Ken,” she cried, “Jesus, Ken!”

“What is it?” he said, rocking with her. “But you’re freezing. Where’ve you been?”

The wind threw a spray of pellets in her face. She couldn’t feel her toes, her fingertips, her nose. Corey was in that house somewhere out in the darkness and he was having sex with that girl—fucking her—and he wasn’t a boy anymore, wasn’t her boy, and never would be again. Yes. All right. That was how it was. And where did that leave her? Free. Free to look after her own needs for a change, to soar and come down and soar again anytime the spirit moved her, and her own child could tell her he hated her and lock her out in the cold and it didn’t matter one iota, not anymore.

“Nowhere,” she said, shivering hard against him. Even through her jacket, even through the cold, she could feel the heat of him, and she wasn’t crying, was she? “I’m fine now,” she said. “I am. Really, I am.”

Part III: Millbrook, 1964

Part III

Millbrook, 1964

Chapter 1

1.

Everything was free-form that first winter at Millbrook, people drifting in and out, chores assigned and forgotten, shrines appearing in the hallways and alcoves and at the top of each flight of stairs. People cooked, washed dishes, split wood. There wasn’t enough money, then there was. The furnace mysteriously broke down and just as mysteriously repaired itself. Mandalas flowered on the walls and Tim, Ken and Fanchon covered the downstairs ceilings in glittering gold paint by way of enhancing the view from the supine position. There were the pets. There were martinis. There was music. And above all, there was the sacrament.