“Mortality.” Viridian was pleased, as if she’d found the clincher to the argument, and I suppose she had. “How does it go?: ‘For the sword outwears its sheath / And the soul wears out the breast / And the heart must pause to breathe / And love itself have rest.’”

“Byron wrote that when he was twenty-nine.” Sacha was on her own turf in any discussion of Mary Shelley’s circle. “And he died at thirty-six. Take your pills.”

I thought it was pretty cool that Byron wrote something two hundred years ago and we were all still talking about it.

Viridian announced that it was time for her nap, though maybe she was just trying to shoo us off. Sacha and I stayed on the front porch while she went inside. Sacha said, “Well, I tried. That’s all the nagging I’m willing to do.”

“I guess she wants to do things her way.”

“Oh, always. She does whatever she wants. And as always, she’s completely charming about it.”

Never in my life had anyone accused me of being charming. I wondered if it was something I should try for. I fought my fights the same way my mom did, with a hammer in each hand and my heels dug in.

“Sacha? What’s she going to do with the poems? The last ones Mathias wrote.”

“Oh God. I don’t know. Some of them are supposed to be about her. Did you know? It’s always been this huge debate. Why should men writing about women be valued more than women writing about themselves? That’s the feminist argument and I do understand it. But it’s not just about gender squabbling. It’s personal. It couldn’t be any more personal for her.”

I tried to put myself in Viridian’s place and understand what kept her from making a decision. Give the poems to someone, or to someone else. Maybe because then it would be over, and no one would care as much.

“Doesn’t she need the money?”

Sacha shook her head. “No. I mean yes, of course she needs money. But she doesn’t think like that. Which is kind of wonderful, really. Also drives you crazy. She at least needs to dig the poems out from under the back steps, or wherever she has them stashed, and put them in a safe deposit box.”

“It must be like when old people don’t want to give up the car keys.”

“Yes, and then they rear end another car and everybody’s sorry.”

We heard voices, laughter. At a distance, up the hill, Ken Spinner and the two girls were making use of the hot tub. To judge from the squealing and protests, there was some horseplay, some game of slap and tickle, going on beneath the surface. Flurries of red and yellow leaves were drifting into the water from the tree next to them, or rather, from the vine on its trunk.