But she could talk with Ben, she thought. They could relive the trip with each other, they could try to understand what had happened, for whatever had happened to her had happened to him. She could see it in his face, in the way he had turned so abruptly from her drawing. Something lay within him, ready to awaken, ready to whisper to him, if he would let it, just as it lay within her and changed the world she saw. It spoke to her, not in words, but in colors, in symbols that she didn’t understand, in dreams, in visions that passed fleetingly through her mind. She watched him where he stood, with the sun shining on him. Light fell on his arm in a way that made each hair gleam golden, a forest of golden trees on a brown plain. He shifted and the twilight on the plain turned the trees black.

“Little sister,” he began, and she smiled and shook her head.

“Don’t call me that,” she said. “Call me . . . whatever you want, but not that.” She had disturbed him; a frown came and went, leaving his face unreadable. “Molly,” she said. “Just call me Molly.”

But now he couldn’t think what it was he had started to say to her. The difference was in her expression, he thought suddenly. Physically she was identical to Miriam, to the other sisters, only the expression was changed. She looked more mature, harder? That wasn’t it, but he thought it was close to what he meant. Determined. Deeper.

“I want to see you on a regular basis for a while,” Ben said abruptly. He hadn’t started to say that at all, hadn’t even thought of it until he said it.

Molly nodded slowly.

Still he hesitated, puzzled about what else he might say.

“You should set the time,” Molly said gently.

“Monday, Wednesday, Saturday, immediately after lunch,” he said brusquely. He made a note in his book.

“Starting today? Or should I wait until Monday?”

She was mocking him, he thought angrily, and snapped his book shut. He wheeled about and strode to the door. “Today,” he said.

Her voice held him at the door. “Do you think I’m losing my mind, Ben? Miriam does.”

He stood with his hand on the knob, not looking at her. The question jolted him. He should reassure her, he knew, say something soothing, something about Miriam’s great concern, something. “Immediately after lunch,” he said harshly, and let himself out.

Molly retrieved the paper she had slid under the Washington drawing and studied it for a time with her eyes narrowed. It was the valley, distorted somewhat so that she could get in the old mill, the hospital, and the Sumner house, all lined up in a way that suggested relatedness. It wasn’t right, however, and she couldn’t decide what was wrong. There were faint marks where the people were to go in the drawing, a cluster of them at the mill, more at the entrance to the hospital, a group in the field behind the old house. She erased the marks and sketched in, very lightly, a single figure, a man, who stood in the field. She drew another figure, a woman, walking between the hospital and the house. It was the size of everything, she thought. The buildings, especially the mill, were so large, the figures so small, dwarfed by the things they had made. She thought of the skeletons she had seen in Washington; a body reduced to bones was smaller still. She would make her figures emaciated, almost skeletal, stark . . .

Suddenly she snatched up the paper, crumpled it into a ball, and threw it into the wastecan. She buried her face in her arms.

They would have a “Ceremony for the Lost” for her, she thought distantly. The sisters would be comforted by the others, and the party would last until dawn as they all demonstrated their solidarity in the face of grievous loss. In the light of the rising sun the remaining sisters would join hands, forming a circle, and after that she would cease to exist for them. No longer would she torment them with her new strangeness, her apartness. No one had the right to bring unhappiness to the brothers or sisters, she thought. No one had the right to exist if such existence was a threat to the family. That was the law.

She joined her sisters for lunch in the cafeteria, and tried to share their gaiety as they talked of the coming-of-age party for the Julie sisters that night.

“Remember,” Meg said, laughing mischievously, “no matter how many offers we get, we refuse all bracelets. And whoever sees the Clark brothers first slips on a bracelet before he can stop her.” She laughed deep in her throat. Twice they had tried to get to the Clark brothers and twice other sisters had beaten them. Tonight they were separating, to take up posts along the path to the auditorium to lie in wait for the young Clark brothers, whose cheeks were still downy, who had crossed the threshold into adulthood only that autumn.

“They’ll all cry ‘Unfair!’ ” Miriam said, protesting feebly.

“I know,” Meg said, laughing again.

Melissa laughed with her and Martha smiled, looking at Molly. “I’m to be at the first hedge,” she said. “You wait by the path to the mill.” Her eyes sparkled. “I’ve got the bracelets all ready. They’re red, with six little silver bells tied in place. How he’ll jingle, whoever gets the bracelet!” The six bells meant all the sisters were inviting all the brothers.

All over the cafeteria groups were huddled just like this, Molly thought, glancing about. Small groups of people, all conspiring, planning their conquests with glee, setting traps . . . Look-alikes, she thought, like dolls.

The Julie sisters had blond hair, hanging loose and held back with tiaras made of deep red flowers. They had chosen long tunics that dipped down low in the back, high in the front in drapes that emphasized their breasts charmingly. They were shy, smiling, saying little, eating nothing. They were fourteen.

Molly looked away from them suddenly and her eyes burned. Six years ago she had stood there, just like that, blushing, afraid and proud, wearing the bracelet of the Henry brothers. The Henry brothers, she thought suddenly. Her first man had been Henry, and she had forgotten that. She looked at the bracelet on her left wrist, and looked away again. One of the sisters had gotten to Clark first, and later Molly and her sisters would play with the Clark brothers on the mat. So smooth still, their faces were as smooth as the Julie faces.

People were trying to match up the bracelets now, and there was much laughter as everyone milled about the long tables and made excuses to examine each other’s bracelets.

“Why didn’t you come to my office this afternoon?”

Molly whirled about to find Ben at her elbow. “I forgot,” she said.

“You didn’t forget.”

She looked down and saw that he still wore his own bracelet. It was plain, grass braided without adornment, without the brothers’ symbol. Slowly, without looking at him, she began to pluck the silver bells from her own bracelet and when there was only one left on it, she slipped the bracelet off her wrist and reached out to put it on his. For a moment he resisted, then he held out his hand and the bracelet slid over his knuckles, over the jutting wrist bone. Only then did Molly look into his face. It was a mask — hard, unfamiliar, forbidding. If she could peel off the mask, she thought, there would be something different.

Abruptly Ben nodded, and turned and left her. She watched him go. Miriam and the others would be angry, she thought. Now there would be an extra Clark brother. It didn’t matter, but Miriam had counted on all of them to participate, and now it would be uneven.

The Julie sisters were dancing with the Lawrence brothers, two by two, and Molly felt a pang of sadness suddenly. Lewis was fertile, perhaps others of his group were also. If one of the Julie sisters conceived and was sent to the breeders’ compound, the next party for them would be the Ceremony for the Lost. She watched them and couldn’t tell which man was Lewis, which Lawrence, Lester . . .