“You remember Bettina,” Sacha said. “And Gary? And April, who takes the beautiful photographs?”

“I’m sure I will, once I set eyes on them.”

I saw Tony Presto hurrying toward us to greet everyone, and I excused myself. Gil and I had work to do.

The reception was held in the main lodge and spilled out over onto the front porch and the river deck. Gil and I poured out wine in reusable plastic glasses and kept the trays of cheese and fruit and vegetables coming. I was grateful for Gil. She worked hard and without complaining and she wasn’t impressed by anyone’s publications.

Viridian sat on one of the front porch rockers and I was glad to see so many people making a point of coming by to greet her and talk with her. She’d changed into a long green dress I hadn’t seen before, and the malachite necklace, and she’d pinned and braided her hair into a silver crown. She was still the queen. She smiled and laughed, engaged and happy. So far at least, it seemed like a good idea for her to be here. And how could we have kept her away? We all seemed to be stumbling up and over an ill-defined line, some nervous territory between friends and caretakers.

Sacha sat at the edge of the porch at Viridian’s feet, and Anders stood sentry next to her. Sacha’s pretty hair made you think of the sun behind a cloud. Anders, on the other hand, with his gaunt, unsmiling face, resembled the sun going down at the start of a Nordic winter.

The other faculty writers had their own groups of admirers. Ken Spinner was holding forth about the research he’d done for his latest novel, how he’d lived with the Bribri people of Costa Rica and learned their creation myth of the sacred tapir, and maybe he had. The fiction writers all seemed to be talking baseball. Oscar was reciting “Jabberwocky” and some of the other Alice in Wonderland poems, which he knew in exhausting detail.

Tony Presto announced that dinner was served, and the crowd headed toward the dining hall. Gil and I stayed behind, picking up. Matt approached, holding a manila envelope. “Hey Carla.”

“Hi Matt. Did you need something?”

“I was hoping you’d read some of my poems.”

“Sure,” I said, because I couldn’t think of any polite way to say no. “Just set them over there.”

“Can you read them now?”

“Right now?” I couldn’t tell if he was serious. He seemed to be. Dead serious and staring. “Little busy at the moment.” Plus, I didn’t want to explain all the contortions I had to go through in order to read and comprehend a poem.

“I can help. You want me to help?”