‘Let him find his own chair,’ Josh said, drawing out of the shadows. In the firelight his eyes were angrier than ever. Jonathan held out his hand. Josh eyed it, got up from the table and left the room without a word.

‘Oh, Johnny –’ Sebastian began again, ‘I’m so – he doesn’t mean—’

‘Forget it, Seb,’ Helen said. ‘Give us a kiss, Johnny. Have you come to stay awhile?’ Jonathan bent over her brow. ‘You still look like Josh’s blue-eyed twin from hell,’ she went on. ‘Married life hasn’t changed you a bit. Tell us about Sarah. How’s the—’

‘Helen—’ Jonathan began.

‘No, no, about you! Tell us about the baby.’

‘A baby’s a baby,’ he said. ‘He’s a little shriveled thing with an ugly, screwed-up face – fists that pump back and forth – We named him Rayner,’ Jonathan said. ‘Is that all right? I thought College would be pleased.’ He stopped short; tears were running down Sebastian’s crumpled cheeks. How can a field of tobacco, wholly vegetable, turn into something animal with mouths that feed on its own insides? How can one thing turn into another? one person turn into another? Helen into Sebastian? Sebastian into Helen? What happens in the end when the snake swallows its tail?

‘What is all this?’ Jonathan said, his throat dry, his voice catching somewhere in his chest. ‘Where are your pupils? You both look ill. I had no idea. Your letters are so vague.’

‘If it weren’t for Josh—’ Sebastian began.

‘He stays on because of the money, Seb. Don’t be such a fool. I’ve got dropsy, Johnny. Seb has consumption. Or something. We made Josh our heir in exchange for taking care of us. He’s remarkably competent, but he hates our guts. Tell us what Sarah—’

‘Helen, you must tell me what’s going on here.’

‘There’s nothing to tell.’

‘Plainly there is. Tell it.’

‘What you see is what there is, no more,’ Helen said.

‘Helen – ’ Sebastian began tremulously, ‘can’t we—? He’s almost our—’

‘No, Seb, we can’t.’

‘Come and live with me,’ Jonathan interrupted them both. ‘You’ve never seen the Pacific, have you? You can see it from the top of the hill outside Hannaville. Hannaville’s a pretty little town. I’ll build you a house there myself. I’m a carpenter by inclination, if not by trade. We’ll start a farm together.’

Jonathan hated farming. It was the world of the Stokes. He hated it for its own sake, too: the fearful labor, the dependence on weather, pests, market forces, public whim, government fiddling. But he knew farming, and he realized as he spoke that the idea had been growing on him for some time simply because, however much he hated farms, he hated preaching more. He was a puritan at heart, and like all puritans he mistrusted pleasure. He had no background for it, didn’t understand it, knew only that it loosened his grip somehow – somehow made him vulnerable where he hadn’t been vulnerable before. Preaching gave him pleasure. His position in the community gave him pleasure. The sway he held over his parishioners gave him pleasure. His gift for oratory gave him pleasure. So (being a puritan at heart) he’d come to despise even the resonance of his own voice sounding as sure as sin while it spoke out what he knew were lies.