Assia also is smiling, scrutinizing Sylvia with her porous, unnerving gaze. Her black hair is gleaming in the sunshine, and the crown of her head looks hot to the touch. Her smile is odd; it reminds Sylvia of swimming up out of sleep in the hospital after her appendectomy, right after she lost the baby. The nurses always had that same kind of smile: plying their thermometers, leering meaningfully into her half-conscious face, eager for signs of weakness or infection. So submerged and swiftly passing that it almost doesn’t register, a thought occurs to Sylvia as she meets Assia’s intent, ravening eyes: Nothing good will come of this.

Sylvia looks quickly away, busily slapping her hands against the thighs of her dungarees as she stands. “I’ve still a few chores out here in the vegetable beds, watering and such,” she calls out in an oddly loud voice, startling herself. “If you’d like, you could take the onions into the kitchen and wait for me there.”

“Oh no, that’s quite all right,” Assia replies, standing and carefully brushing the seat of her capris with her glove. “I’m enjoying our time out here, getting to know each other. And this is all new to me. I’ve never been much for gardens. If you don’t mind, I’ll just tag along until you’re finished.”

“Certainly,” Sylvia answers, without looking in Assia’s direction. She bends down, picking up the end of the garden hose, which lies uncoiled on the lawn like a long, lifeless snake or a green umbilicus, all the way across the yard from the spigot at the side of the house.

“Can I help?” Assia asks, reaching for the bucket where Sylvia last deposited it in the grass.

Sylvia glances over. “Oh no,” she answers. “That’s actually not for water. Look inside—it’s full of ashes. We collect them from the fireplace and sprinkle them over the garden for fertilizer. It’s very good for onions, but it’s messy. I don’t think you’re dressed for it. Although,” she adds, “you could turn on the water for me.”

When Assia loosens the spigot, the hose leaps in Sylvia’s hand, water shooting in a clear, forceful arc, falling back as the water pressure equalizes. Assia begins to wander back toward the vegetable beds, pausing to inspect Nicholas in his pram, then turns instead toward the greenhouse, where the most tender of Sylvia’s seeds are still propagating. Assia peers through the window glass, her still-gloved hand at her forehead, shading her eyes.

Sylvia waters her garden, a thumb over the metal hose coupling for control, her free arm snapping and pulling the hose around the edge of the beds as she steps backward. Assia’s still poking around; Sylvia pretends not to have been watching her wander the yard when Assia calls out from across the lawn.