“How in the world,” said Sina, more in wonder than criticism, “do you manage to scorch dumplings? They’re made in liquid.”

“Not always,” said Gladys, who invariably ate her own cooking with relish.

Gladys had spent the afternoon first visiting the soldiers with offerings of burnt cookies, which she claimed they liked just fine, then slumped against the outside of Sina’s studio listening to the radio and periodically calling out, “Change the station,” to which Sina would reply, “Go away,” before Gladys finally did in order to make dinner.

After dinner we sang around the piano as the moon shone brilliantly through the window and Winifred and I nodded meaningly at each other.

We sang gospel hymns and the entire score of Oklahoma!, the big smash-hit Broadway musical. Gladys kept trying to insert bebops between the lines of “Many a New Day” and “I Cain’t Say No.” Sina looked vaguely perturbed by this rendition—“Many a New Day” lost some of its innocent charm, it was true, when it was sung by a slouched and finger-snapping Gladys inserting bebop bebop every other line—but everyone was feeling so fine and full of energy that no one was small-minded enough to carp about this. Because everyone was having a good time, it took forever until people were willing to drift off to bed. I finally got the ball rolling by yawning loudly and theatrically. I find this is contagious and will often get recalcitrant bedgoers in the mood. Indeed, soon people began to yawn with me and stretch and complain of their terrible fatigue and it was all I could do not to shout Then go to bed!

Eventually everyone did drift off to their own quarters. Winifred sneaked into my room, and together we waited fully dressed for everyone to fall asleep and the hermit to make his way into the night garden. We were sitting at the window in the dark staring at where the fields ended and the woods began, watching as Gladys, with a flashlight, headed down the military road, and looking for the hermit to arrive when Sina knocked at my door.

Winifred and I stared mutely horrified at each other.

Finally I croaked, “Yes?”

“It’s Sina, dear, can I come in?” she said.

“No!” I said, without thinking. “That is, I’m almost asleep, Sina.”

“No, you’re not. I can tell from where your voice is. You aren’t in bed—you’re by the window, aren’t you?”

“No, I’m just throwing my voice,” I said. “It’s a trick Winifred taught me.”

“Why would she teach you to throw your voice?” asked Sina. “It seems a silly thing to do.”

“She just did,” I said, discovering that in a pinch I had no talents as a liar. I am not one of those sorts who can make up long and elaborate stories at the drop of a hat. “People do do things just because, you know.”

“Yes, true, very true,” said Sina. “It’s just that I’ve been missing you lately. Since the Onslaught.” (Which was how Sina had been secretly referring to the arrival of all these people.) “We’ve stopped rocking on the landing and watching the sunsets together, you and I.”