SABINA DODGE STOOD at the window in the study, watching Sweeney and Electra walk down the driveway. Nice girl, smart, a bit uptight, but interesting just the same. "Very at the window in the study, watching Sweeney and Electra walk down the driveway. Nice girl, smart, a bit uptight, but interesting just the same. "Very unique unique," Gilda would have said, with a raise of her eyebrows. Unique Unique, p.r.o.nounced with a bit of a French flourish, had been Gilda's highest form of praise and indication that she wanted to bring someone into their social circle. There had been a time when Sabina had felt jealous of those new girls, inevitably younger, prettier, breezier, so in awe of Gilda. But after a time, they had ceased to affect her much. She remembered one visit in particular, when a young sculptress had come to stay with them. Gilda had staged a seduction and been rebuffed. Sabina had never felt more powerful than when she had comforted her that night, Gilda had not handled aging particularly well. Anyway, she would have gotten a kick out of Sweeney.

Sabina straightened a bowl on the bookshelf and looked up at the wall. Seeing Gilda's paintings there calmed her, as though she was right up there, looking down on Sabina, winking the way she always had when they were in public. That private wink. It had been a truth of their relationship that no matter how left behind and ignored Sabina felt at Gilda's art openings or parties, a wink always brought her back, made her feel loved. She looked up at the wall again. Funny how Sweeney had picked out the relief right away, asked about it.

Sabina pottered around the room, neatening up the surfaces of bookcases and tables. As she was about to go, she looked up at the wall again. There was something strange about it ... She had never noticed it before, but there was something about the piece of art that made her uneasy. She stared at it for a few moments but couldn't figure out what it was that bothered her and went into the kitchen to fix herself a drink.

She had fetched the mail earlier and placed it on the kitchen table, and as she sat down to read it, she caught sight of a small, hand-addressed envelope. It was the invitation to the Wentworths' Christmas party. It went without saying that she was invited, of course, but Britta liked to design the invitations every year. This one was a small red card with raised holly berries and the wording in silver calligraphy: "Please join us for our annual Holiday Fete. Britta and Patch Wentworth."

She remembered suddenly, with all the retrospective rapture of her advanced age, the first Christmas party she had been to at Birch Lane. She had been eighteen, madly in love but as yet uncertain of what plans Gilda had for her. This would have been, what? 1948. She had worn a new dress, bought and paid for with money she had received as a present upon finishing art school. She had met Gilda that fall at a seminar and had been much too pleased to be invited up for a weekend just before Christmas. Her parents-German immigrants who had been beaten down and diminished in health and spirit by the experience of being foreigners during the war-didn't pay much attention to what she did. She didn't suppose they would have had the imagination to think that anything might be wrong with the visit anyway. So she had gone, traveling alone on the train, filled with a rising fear and excitement.

She had not known what Gilda's intentions were until that night after the party. But before that there had been their magical walk through the snow, and then the house, filled with greenery and light and music. Herrick Gilmartin had kissed her hand and winked at Gilda. She had danced with so many men that night, her eyes locked with Gilda's. Gilda did not dance.

The parties were different now that Patch and Britta gave them. If she was honest, she had to admit that they seemed less natural, somehow, more staged, more deliberate deliberate. But that was Britta, of course. Poor Britta.

She propped the invitation up on the windowsill and sorted through the rest of the mail, then poured herself a gin and tonic. It was the c.o.c.ktail hour. Outside the kitchen window, the sun was dropping on the horizon. The light was cold. This was the time of day she missed Gilda most, she decided. It was when Gilda had liked to take a break from painting and they would sit in the kitchen, talking or reading the paper, listening to the late afternoon radio news. It was the time of day when it was hardest to be alone.

EIGHTEEN.

AFTER WALKING BACK to Sabina's to get her car, Sweeney drove back to the Wentworths'. As she went to turn into the driveway, she stopped and sat there for a moment with her eyes shut tight. When she opened them she could see through the naked trees the looming yellow house, and she felt suddenly that she couldn't go back yet. She swung the car around and drove much too fast along the road and over the bridge. to Sabina's to get her car, Sweeney drove back to the Wentworths'. As she went to turn into the driveway, she stopped and sat there for a moment with her eyes shut tight. When she opened them she could see through the naked trees the looming yellow house, and she felt suddenly that she couldn't go back yet. She swung the car around and drove much too fast along the road and over the bridge.

Once she was off The Island, Sweeney took a deep breath. She could go to the library instead, and look up J.L.B., then get a cup of coffee to celebrate this important discovery. A lot had happened. She now knew that Ruth Kimball wasn't the only one who thought there was something strange about Mary's death. She also knew that there was a good chance that Herrick Gilmartin, perhaps with the help of the mysterious J.L.B., was involved. She had made progress and she wanted some solitude to process it all.

Byzantium's downtown was bustling in the early afternoon. Shoppers in hats and heavy winter coats ducked in and out of storefronts, laden with shopping bags and children. There were tiny white lights in all the trees along the sidewalks, and red and green banners hung from the power lines, giving the downtown a festive look.

With the Rabbit safely parked in a lot behind Main Street, Sweeney strolled up to the library and found that it was closed until three. The little sign stared at her and she felt a swelling of frustration.

But then she remembered Ruth Kimball's name in the guest book at the historical society. At the very least, she could find out what Ruth Kimball had been reading in the months before her death.

There was a different librarian behind the desk today and Sweeney gave a little inward prayer of thanks. She filled out a request form for the Denholm files again and when the librarian-a teenage girl with a nose ring and a platinum crew cut-disappeared into the back room, she grabbed the pile of old request forms and flipped through them, congratulating the historical society for its inefficiency when she found slips from the previous May in the pile. When she reached July, she found Ruth Kimball's slip and copied down the number of the book she had requested on a new request form.

"Oh, thanks," she said when the girl came back with her files. "I just realized I need this book, too."

The girl looked exasperated, but went and retrieved a coffee-table-sized book, which she placed on the counter. Sweeney wanted to grab it and look through it right away, but she forced herself to stay calm and take the book and the files into the reading room.

She set them down on the table. The book, with its brown paper cover, seemed full of promise.

But the t.i.tle page was a huge disappointment. "A Celebration of The Bicentennial of Byzantium's Settlement, 1769 to 1969." The pictures were all of town residents in late '60s minidresses and sideburns, celebrating the bicentennial of the town.

She looked through it carefully, but found nothing remotely related to Mary Denholm or the colony. Finally she gathered the materials together and took them back to the counter, then went dejectedly out onto the street.

She spent an hour in and out of the small boutiques and gift shops, buying Christmas presents and browsing. In one, she bought Toby a cashmere scarf and a set of silver bangle bracelets for herself. In a kitchen store, she bought a blue ceramic pitcher for Britta and Patch and mugs for each of the children. The mugs, plain on the outside, had tiny ceramic animals squatting in the bottom and they cheered her somehow, with their grim creature faces.

She found relief in her shopping, and by the time she wandered into the Well Read Bookstore, she was feeling moderately happy and desperate for caffeine. The cafe in the bookstore obliged with a pa.s.sable latte, and she sipped while she read a women's magazine, an indulgence that felt justified after what she considered a fruitful morning and an even more fruitful afternoon to come.

Finally it was three, and she went back to the library and made a beeline for the art section where she sat down on the floor and flipped madly through the indexes of all the books on Byzantium.

It was only after Sweeney had looked through the indexes of all of the books on the Byzantium Colony that she realized how much she'd been counting on discovering the ident.i.ty of J.L.B. within their pages. But not a single one of them offered up an artist with those initials. When she looked in Bennett Dammers's book, under the lists of studio a.s.sistants who had served under Morgan, there were only three listed for the summer of 1890. They were Myra Benton, Andrew Lordley, and Franco Quatrelli. No matter how she rearranged their initials, not one of them could be J.L.B.

She'd come to a dead end.

NINETEEN.

"d.a.m.n IT, SWEENEY, where have you been?" Toby demanded as she came in through the kitchen to find them all sitting around the table.

"I'm sorry. I lost track of time." She looked from Patch to Britta. "I decided to go downtown after Sabina's and before I knew it, it was dark."

But Toby didn't let her finish. "How do you think it made us feel when we called Sabina's and she said you'd left hours ago. In case you haven't heard, the police are saying now that Ruth Kimball was murdered. What do you think I imagined when you didn't come back?" His black eyes were furious behind his gla.s.ses.

"Toby, Toby, calm down," Patch said soothingly. "She's okay. That's what matters."

Sweeney looked up to find Ian watching them. She flushed and felt a lump of anger rise up in her throat.

"I'm not five, Toby, and I would hope that you would have imagined me taking care of myself, because that's exactly what I do." It struck her that despite his protestations the night before, he believed there was something in all this, and that he believed she was in danger. And suddenly she felt awful and she wanted to tell him she was sorry.

Embarra.s.sed, Patch said, "Why don't we all go into the living room and leave you two."

"No, that's all right," Sweeney said, and turned to Toby. "Can we go for a drive or something? I want to talk to you."

He nodded and they put on their coats in silence and went out to the Rabbit. Driving gave her something to do as she decided what she wanted to say and they were almost to the Kimb.a.l.l.s' house before she started, "I'm sorry. I should have called and told you guys I was downtown."

"Yeah, especially after all the stuff last night about someone being willing to kill Ruth Kimball to keep her quiet." That was sarcastic.

She waited a moment until he had calmed down and then, because she was embarra.s.sed, she blurted out, all at once, the words tumbling over and over each other, "What I'm really sorry about is last night. You were right. I put you in a really bizarre position and the thing is, I like Rosemary and I like how you are with her and I want it to work out. But I can't help it if I'm jealous or whatever it is that I am. I shouldn't have said anything."

They drove over the bridge and Sweeney pulled the car over into a little turnout overlooking the brook.

"Yeah, that seems to be the way you and I do things," Toby said. They were quiet for a moment and then he went on, "When I ... last summer, I don't think you knew how hard it was for me to see you. You made it out that you were the victim in all of it, that I was wrong to have told you. I don't know why I let you do that. I didn't say anything, but maybe I should have. And then, I just ... it kind of gradually went away. I replaced it with something else and I was okay. I met Rosemary and it was the first time I'd even felt anything anything for anybody other than you. In a long time." for anybody other than you. In a long time."

She listened to the brook rushing beneath them. The night was still. "I know that. And that's good." There was nothing else to say. She felt like laughing. Toby just looked at her.

"Do you think that maybe this whole thing means something? That it means you're ready for, I don't know, a normal relationship? With a man who doesn't already know that you eat condensed milk out of the can with a spoon?" The car's headlights bounced off an evergreen tree in front of them, shining on Toby's face. He was grinning.

"Is that what Dr. Berg would say?" Toby, whose mother had put him in psychoa.n.a.lysis when he was eleven, always had a Dr. Berg.

"No, you don't want to know what Dr. Berg has to say."

She started up the car. "What? Does Dr. Berg think I'm screwed up?"

"Very." They laughed. "Are you okay?"

"Yes." She wasn't yet, but she would be.

As they pulled into the driveway, he said, "Hey, what did you find out today? Anything interesting?"

She told him about the relief at Sabina's house and asked if he'd ever heard of anyone a.s.sociated with the colony with the initials J.L.B.

"I don't think so, but you should ask Patch. He'd know."

Sweeney knew she wouldn't do that. She said, "I don't know. I'm ready for a break from Mary's gravestone."

"You should come skiing with us tomorrow then. We're taking the kids, I think. It'll be fun."

"Okay. Sounds good. I'm terrible, though. I might break my neck."

"Don't worry. I'll look after you." He smiled. "I always do."

TWENTY.

DECEMBER 17.

IT WAS BRIGHT and clear the next morning, a perfect skiing day. Outside Sweeney's bedroom window, the disembodied sky, a brilliant slippery, shiny blue, seemed to hang in suspension. She stared at it, half-conscious, until a pa.s.sing cloud, as vague as a puff of breath in frozen air, broke her gaze. and clear the next morning, a perfect skiing day. Outside Sweeney's bedroom window, the disembodied sky, a brilliant slippery, shiny blue, seemed to hang in suspension. She stared at it, half-conscious, until a pa.s.sing cloud, as vague as a puff of breath in frozen air, broke her gaze.

Outside, after breakfast, they organized skis and cars. There wasn't room for everybody in the Rabbit, so it was decided that Toby would take Britta's Land Rover with Gwinny and the twins and all of the equipment.

"I'll go with Sweeney," Rosemary said.

Toby looked concerned for a moment, until Sweeney said, "Yes, good. It will give us time to talk about Toby," and he flashed her a grateful smile.

"Can I ask you something?" Rosemary said, as they pa.s.sed a development of condominiums hugging the sides of the mountain. Sweeney slowed down behind an old station wagon, crawling improbably up the hill.

"Sure."

"What do you think about Toby and me?" Sweeney turned her head and saw that she was blushing, and Sweeney felt herself blush back.

But she could say honestly, "I think it's great. I'm really happy for you guys."

"He's lovely. I just keep wondering if it's just that we're on holiday, you know. And if I should be careful not to get too involved."

"Well, I can tell you that Toby takes things seriously. He always has. I don't think he would be involved at all if he wasn't serious about it. I don't know if that helps."

"Thank you," Rosemary said, smiling. "I'm a bit out of practice. I haven't dated in ages and I've kind of forgotten what you're supposed to do and not do. I asked him if he wanted to have lunch with Granny and me and then I panicked that he might think I was trying to rope him." She laughed. "See how muddled up about it all I am?"

"I wouldn't worry about that," Sweeney said, laughing, too. "Toby's usually the one who's inviting people to meet his mom after the first date."

They drove in silence for a while before Rosemary said, "And what about you? Is it my imagination or is there something going on between you and Ian?"

"Ian?"

"I thought I detected something. On his side anyway."

"I don't think so. Actually, he's been driving me a little crazy. Does he seem odd to you?"

"Other than the fact that he's English?"

Sweeney laughed. "You don't think there's something kind of sinister about him?"

"Sinister? I think he has a crush on you."

Sweeney blushed. "It feels more like he wants to kill me."

"What?" Rosemary looked shocked.

"No, I'm kidding. I don't know ... it's just that you know when someone's always watching you and, I don't know, keeping track of you. That's how it feels. He's keeping track of me."

"I still think he has a crush on you."

Sweeney didn't say anything. She hadn't considered that possibility.

THEY SKIED ALL MORNING, Toby and the kids off on the expert slopes and Sweeney and Rosemary trying to stay upright on the easier runs. Sweeney hadn't skied for five or six years, but she remembered the basics and after a couple of runs felt that she was starting to improve. By the time they met Toby, Gwinny, Trip and Gally for lunch in the lodge, she felt pleasantly exhausted.

They all skied together in the afternoon and after a couple of runs, she found herself riding the lift up the mountain with Gally. He was a good skier-the best of the three kids, really, though Trip was more daring-and she told him so as they cleared the lodge and moved slowly up the mountain, the wind blowing tiny crystals of snow around his head, leaving it in his hair like glitter.

"Thanks," he said, and then lapsed into silence.

She had no idea what his eyes were doing behind his sungla.s.ses, and she sensed that he didn't want to talk. But she went on anyway.

"Do you like being home for Christmas, or do you miss school?"

"It's all right, I guess. I don't really have a choice."