When will he ever be back?—the thought stings him more than the icy air. Another storm is expected by tomorrow, announced by the rector, who called a greeting over the holly hedge, his hat pulled low, plodding over the thickly banked footpath with his little aluminum garden spade to open the church for Innocents’ Day service.

Ted’s hand on the back door’s latch, the key in the lock—who knows when either of them, he or Sylvia, will come back. He leaves his key suspended in the lock, opens the door, and enters one last time, stomping his boots of snow, passing the scullery, the buckets, the brooms, the black latch sliding, and in the dark of the cellar reaches for the remaining jars of her honey, the last of her harvest—

—Her face as she peered into the combs that first day of beekeeping, searching for the just-delivered queen, imagining the creamy wax cups full, the slow cascade of thick gold, the bellows of the bee man’s smoker stoking her dream: her life in a cowslip’s bell, under the blossom that hangs on the bough. The bees recognizing the unfaithful lover, climbing into his hair, the six sudden stings. Her fear as he ran through the orchard, pursued, her face transforming from sweet anticipation to helpless terror, throwing off her gloves, her cheesecloth veil, running after in the futile desire to protect him—the thought of it, so peculiar: Sylvia wanting to protect him—

—He loads the full jars against his jacket, safe under his crooked elbow. She might need all of this honey; there was no telling when she might get back. It was a kindness; he could still do that for her. He withdraws from the house and turns his key, leaving the cellar empty.

40. “The Swarm”

CHAPTER FORTY

“The Swarm”

DECEMBER 28, 1962

It is Innocents’ Day, childermas, the feast of the innocents: a day for reflection on ungovernable violence, and hope springing forth regardless. A day to reflect on the jealousy and greed of Herod, angered by the wisdom of the Magi, ordering the slaughter of the children of Bethlehem—all those black and bloodied roses. A day to remember the Magi, patient astrologers, those sacred Eastern scribes, priests to the heavens: they watched the fixed stars burning past Aries, past the sacrifice of fire and the ram, the laws of Abraham and Moses, toward Pisces: the fish, the waters, salvation through faith and the harvest of a virgin. They followed their stars, carrying gold and myrrh and frankincense; they joined the desert shepherds carrying fruit and honey and doves. A day to remember a dream of flight: both the Magi’s, alerting them to bypass Herod’s Jerusalem and slip unnoticed home, and Joseph’s, sending him into Egypt’s safety with the anointed Child of Light.