"I don't mind."

"Do you still miss her?" she asks.

"Mmm." I realign my chair. "Miss who, exactly?"

"That woman. That dancer of yours."

"Oh. You mean . . ."

She means Eulalie. The architect of my downfall. The companion of my every waking thought.

"I don't miss her," I say, surprised to find it true. "Not so much. What I mean is I'm-I'm sorry I made so many mistakes. On her account. I regret making you suffer. . . ."

Each word thrown up like a cloud of incense. My mother puts out her hand and, in a low tight voice, says:

"No, Hector. Don't apologize. It's my turn."

And then she does something I've never seen her do before on any of her Fridays. She pushes away her silver.

"I know you'll find this hard to believe," she says, wiping the remnants of froth from the muslin over her sleeves. "But the one hope I used to cherish about this place was that some marriageable young girl might come to lodge here, and the two of you might get along and-well, there you are." She turns away. "Something good might come from all this."

And there, at the very cusp of sentiment, she explodes into laughter-so robust it fairly stops my heart.

"Silly of me," she says. "The only female lodgers we ever get are well past marrying age. Old women, yes. And young men."

She plucks a rag from the table, dabs the merriment from her eyes.

"Do you remember the other morning in the garden?" she asks, quietly. "With Charles?"

"You left in a hurry. I remember that."

"I don't know if I can explain it. There I was, watching Charles and thinking, Oh, what a child he is, really. And then I . . ." She draws in a long breath, which catches at the very end. "I remembered I used to stand in that very same place when you were a boy. Watching you do the very same thing. Except you were digging for worms. Do you remember?"

"Of course."

"And I would stand over you, and every time you found a worm, I'd say, 'Ooh, that's a juicy one! ' And you'd always laugh. And you'd always put the worms back. I'd say, 'Don't you want to put them in a jar or take them fishing with you? ' But no, you always wanted them to-go home, you called it."

This much is clear. Each of the tears welling now from my mother's eyes is extracted at enormous cost.

"Amazing," she says. "To have all that come sweeping back. So sweet and so terrible. The laugh in your voice . . . the look you had. You trusted us, Hector, and we . . ." She gives her eyes a smear. "Well, we didn't make a very happy life for you, did we?"

"You tried your best."

"Our best," she echoes.

A new scent in her voice now: scalding, bitter. And behind it a gathering purpose.

"Not too long ago," she says, "you asked me about your father. About when he was a physician. I don't know why I was so unkind. You only wanted to know, and who could blame you? I suppose . . . oh, Hector, whenever I look back on that time, all I see is . . . everything ending, that's what I see. Because your father was never the same after."

"A f ter what ? "

"After that boy died," she says. "The boy in the tower."

CHAPTE R 3 8.

A Case of Domestic Espionage "We ll, w hy s hou ldn't I have known?" says Mother, smiling darkly. "You think I don't have a brain in my head?"

"But I thought Father was under strict orders. . . ."

"When you get married, Hector, you'll understand. A man may be following orders, but no one will ever read him better than his wife. Every hesitation, every little withholding, she hears it. Of course, she always imagines the worst. Then she finds-she finds she didn't imagine the worst after all.

"Oh, Hector," she whispers. "There's so much to tell."

May 22, 1795. The day after my third birthday, and in its beginnings, a day like any other. Clothilde (our former maid) scraping grease off the stove; me, building a tower of old eggshells; Mother, tweezing the dead blossoms from the geraniums.