And the real miracle, the dazzle of their little faces! Rapt before the candles’ delicate flicker, the spectacle of the ornamented tree, bright packages gladsome in their ribbons, knit stockings bulging where she’d tacked them to the mantel. The Christmas carousel turning, its pinwheel fan catching the rising heat of the red tapers Sylvia lit before waking Frieda and Nick, its procession of hand-painted shepherds and gilt-edged Magi revolving in patient anticipation, following their fateful star as the candles burn down, leading lambs and laden camels toward the swaddled Child of Light. Her children, nothing but light—from her nightgowned lap, Nicholas reaching his fingers out to touch the brilliant shapes, the dangling stars of bent straw. Frieda still baby enough to be lost in wonder, squatting before the tree in amazement, simply marveling until a present is handed to her for opening; and then the oohing over every peppermint cane, every animal or whistle come free of its wrapping, the mystifying ritual revealed.

Lost in stunning wonder—

He said he would go; Ted was going to Court Green. He agreed to drive there on his way back from Yorkshire. He would collect their apples, their onions and potatoes. He would find her red corduroy. He would bring her a jar of honey, pure and sweet. They would meet, by agreement, on Saturday morning at the flat on Montagu Square.

It was a promise. How to keep this kindling prospect in check, this shimmer, finally, of tentative connection: a minor thing, a gesture; but no insignificant act in the climate of deadening chill between them. He said yes—the wonder of it, that she could ask for something and it would be all right; that on this one point, they could come to terms. But it is vague yet, not so clear as an olive branch, a declaration of peace. It is, perhaps, more like the sight of the grove from a distance, over the knots of dark water.