“It is,” Rosie confirmed and then turned to Colleen. “We made this for you at summer camp.” She held out a plastic stick covered with silver glitter and bright ribbons of every color.

“Oh?” Colleen took it, avoiding the lumps of glue by holding it between two fingers. “Thank you so much.”

“It’s a magic wand,” Rosie explained.

“I’ve always wanted something magical.” Colleen waved it in the air; glitter scattered, clinging to whatever it touched.

“I told you,” Rosie said to Sadie, giving her the littlest shove. And then there they were in her memory, herself and Hallie as little girls. She was telling Hallie, “I told you so,” and Hallie was grinning from ear to ear. Just like these little ones, Hallie and she had worn ratty tutus and believed that life’s glittery path would lead them to become princesses—Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty—who would be saved by men’s kisses. Look how that had worked out.

“I think I need a drink,” Colleen said and held her wand high.

“It’s only four in the afternoon.” Hallie placed her hand on top of each little girl’s head to protect them from their happy hour aunt.

Colleen waved her glittering wand. “It’s magically five o’clock. Thanks, princesses.” She set out for the bar in search of her dad and a whiskey.

The pub was mostly empty except for Mr. Brown, who sat in the same seat he’d occupied in Colleen’s memories. A widower even when she was in high school, he drank whiskey sometimes and other times just water, staring at the TV above the bar and making conversation with whoever crossed his path. His bald head as polished as the bar top; his gold wedding ring still on his left hand.

He glanced up. “Well, hello there, Lena Donohue.”

“Hi, Mr. Brown.” Colleen reached his side and offered a hug. “How are you?”

“About the same as I always am. How are you, dear? How is the big city treating you?”

“Wonderfully, actually.”

“We miss you ’round here. We all do.”

“That’s very sweet of you to say. It’s good to see you, too.” Colleen smiled and walked away as he returned his attention to the soundless baseball game. This was the way of the Lark—tradition built in as firmly as the bricks and mortar, as the beer taps and bar counter thick with shellac. This pub—just as the marsh behind her house—held the invisible geography of her memories.