“They’ll have a lovely Christmas, just like all the lovely Christmases you created,” Sylvia chants, free to be magnanimous at arm’s length. “All the old traditions. I’m going to decorate the tree with cookie cutouts, glazed hearts, just like you always did, on Christmas Eve. We’re going to make springerle and German punch and gingerbread. I’ve already been baking.” Your stooges, Mother, gingerbread hung on the tree—glancing around the parlor with their wary raisin eyes, watching for witches, for Perseus. “You should see the surprises I have planned,” she says, pouring sugar over everything, the gratifying sparkle of familial legend. “I’ll write you all about it. The flat is really looking inviting and cozy. I’ve been sewing curtains—yellow broadcloth for the kitchen, blue velveteen for the au pair’s room, and the parlor—”

“You can wash velveteen by hand, you know, if it’s cotton—” Aurelia advises, scrabbling to keep psychological pace with her daughter.

“—painting the floors. I’ve got a blue theme for the decor, really elegant but simple,” Sylvia continues.

“I hope the Christmas package arrives”—Aurelia frets—“not just presents but decorations, too, some of the glass garlands I thought you’d like, packed very, very carefully, so open them with caution. To make things more festive for the children—and I sent each of them exactly the same number of wrapped gifts. I know Nick is too little to tell the difference, but Frieda is getting so clever she just might, so I didn’t want to take a chance—” she adds.

“It’s come already, Mother,” Sylvia reassures her.

“Oh no, it couldn’t have,” Aurelia says. “You must mean the other one, with the balloons and the toothpaste—”

“Yes, that’s right—”

“No, that’s not it. The real Christmas package I mailed later,” Aurelia says.

“It’s beginning to get cold out here, Mother. I should really get the children inside—” Sylvia says, feeling a bruise of guilt at her mother’s familiar, scrupulous care.

“Sivvy, before you go—” Aurelia says, feeling blindly for a hold, “—The niece of a colleague of mine at the university is coming to England next month. She’s a young married girl, an aspiring writer. I haven’t read anything of hers yet, but her uncle said he would give me an article she published in her local newspaper. He says she would love to meet you and get your professional advice. Would you mind if I give her your new address?”

“In January, Mother?” Sylvia responds, carefully shifting Aurelia’s request to her own advantage. “You know, I’ll be absolutely swamped then—with the BBC and my silly novel coming out and all that. But I could make time, I suppose—for a friend of yours. Why don’t you tell her to write and suggest a date for tea at the flat?”