‘Are you going to retire, too?’ he asked Kennedy. She had been at the hospital clinic a hundred years; she was the one who welcomed him back when he awoke from the last coma; he was accustomed to her.

‘Heavens, no, Father, I’ll be here ’til the cows come home.’

‘Good,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’

•   •   •

THEY LAY ON THE STUDY SOFA under a couple of blankets, her feet to the south, his to the north, the fire on the hearth turning to embers.

Though he couldn’t see it rising over Little Mitford Creek, a waning moon silvered the branches of the maple, the Japanese cherry, the pickets of their fence. He raised his head for a better view of the celestial vault, wishing he could see Cassiopeia and Perseus and Camelopardalis—constellations whose names he loved pronouncing as a boy—but moonshine obscured such aloof regions.

‘I brought you flowers last Tuesday for our anniversary,’ he said, ‘but I’m due for another round.’

‘I should bring you flowers. I’ve been bossy.’

‘I’ve been . . .’ He thought about what he’d been. ‘. . . caustic.’

‘I wonder if my being bossy makes you caustic. Or did your being caustic make me bossy?’

‘All I know,’ he said, ‘is that Barnabas is downstairs and seems to like it, the checks are still rolling in to Violet, and I love you better than life.’

‘I love you back,’ she said.

‘To carry forth the full confession, I’m also sorry I fell asleep after your great dinner on Tuesday.’

‘I consider it a compliment.’

‘Falling asleep on our anniversary and not even helping with the dishes. That’s a compliment?’

‘You feel comfortable with me. I don’t think I’m a particularly comfortable person. Besides, we celebrated early in Dublin, remember?’

He grasped her foot, held it tight—so much was loose in this world. ‘Thanks for helping keep watch.’

‘If you’re sleeping down here, I’m sleeping down here. How many nights?’

‘One more, I think.’ He closed his eyes, spoke aloud their favored prayer from the Compline.

‘Before the ending of the day / Creator of the world we pray . . .’

She joined her voice with his. ‘That thou with wonted love shouldst keep . . .

‘Thy watch around us while we sleep . . .’

The prayer ended, the fire crackled and sighed.

‘Are you drifting off?’

‘Not immediately.’

‘Let’s write love letters again,’ she said. ‘Like we did when I was stuck in Manhattan all those months and we were trying to figure out what we meant to each other.’

‘Love letters are hard.’

‘But that’s what makes them good.’

On his bed by the hearth, Barnabas whimpered in his sleep, his squirrel whimper; Violet slept in the armchair.

‘How often?’ he said.

‘Twice a week?’

‘That’s way too much, Kav’na.’

‘Once a week, then. That’s absolutely the best deal I can make.’

The small rattle against the window of maple branches in a September wind. He was completely content, apt to say anything.

‘Let’s do it.’

•   •   •

PERHAPS SOME BY-PRODUCT of nocturnal energy poured off celestial bodies, rained on the hapless, jangled human nerves. In any case, he couldn’t sleep.

He breathed a mantra known to pacify his nervous system—Thank you, thank you, thank you, again and again, and finally, onto his nightly petitions for Cynthia, Dooley, Lace, Sammy, Kenny . . . off he went, naming the legions, lingering on some blurred or precise image of each, all this followed by supplications for the Church, this country, her leaders, her enemies.

He could usually manage that much in a lateral fashion before his petitions drifted like clouds before a leeward wind. He found drifting to be the provoking nature of prayer—and there was the water tower in Holly Springs and Henry and Peggy in the house with the swept yard, and his breathing coming easier now, and he was no longer lifting up the living, but poking around in the dim chambers of those gone before.

If wakefulness persisted, as it was doing tonight, he often applied himself to the useful soporific of ‘praying the town,’ which meant going in his imagination from door to door, interceding for Mitford families, with special intentions for the sick. If he lasted long enough, which was rare, he included the merchants, who needed all the help they could get.

It had been thoughtless to buy into Cynthia’s letter-writing scheme, as if he had nothing else to do. Though, come to think of it, he had nothing else to do, except three miles three times . . .

So if he was going to write her, where would he go for inspiration? He had used the Song of Solomon more than once, which was also more than enough, being the sticky business most people knew it to be.

Better still, if he was going to get serious about it, he needed first to answer the letter from Henry, which had arrived days ago. He considered getting up and doing it now, but if he moved, the whole sleeping arrangement would come to pieces.

O Lord, I call to you, come quickly to me, Hear my voice when I call to you. May my prayer be set before you like incense; may the lifting up of my hands be like the evening sacrifice . . .

Somewhere in the fifth verse, his mind drifted.

Camelopardalis, he was thinking as he fell asleep.

•   •   •

DAWN. THE LIGHT SHY, the sun hidden; low-hanging fog.

Still in his robe and pajamas, he took his coffee mug out to the maple beyond the study window and looked toward the dark stain of mountains along the horizon.

What he needed was a new route. In the past, he’d run up Wisteria and across Church Hill Road, cut up Old Church Lane and hung a left at Fernbank, then a left on Lilac Road and a right toward Farmer. He wasn’t crazy about the Farmer leg of that run, some drivers insisted they paid taxes on both sides of the road and were determined to get their money’s worth. The road to Wesley was busier still, with more carbon monoxide to suck into his lungs, so what to do? A parochial route; that was the ticket, though he hated having ten extra pounds flapping in the face of every Tom, Dick, and Harry on Main Street—fat was a private matter.

He’d give the parochial plan a try. If he didn’t like it, he could change it. He would cross Main and hook a right toward Farmer, then a couple of rights to the tower monument, then up Lilac, hit Church Hill, and home. Easy.

Okay. And if he had any wind left when he hit Lilac, he could keep going and run around the monument, then twice around the parking lot at town hall, then over to Church Hill and home to Wisteria.

Forgetful of the morning dew, he sat on the bench under the maple tree, exhausted just thinking about it.

•   •   •

Dear Henry . . .

The morning was close, humid; he was sweating as he hooked a right toward Farmer. Any advantage of the running he’d done in the past was long used up; he was strung tight as a mountain banjo.

Out of the Irish skillet and into the fire, it appears that C and I cannot avoid all manner of boondoggleries.

But no, he wouldn’t go into the McGraw affair, too much work composing all that drivel, and to what end?

We’re plenty glad to be back at 107 Wisteria. As I said when we talked, we arrived home in the middle of the night, Dooley and Lace driving us up the mountain. What I forgot to say is that I wish you could have seen our little town sleeping at two in the morning—I was especially moved by the sight of the streetlamps glimmering as if under the spell of sober thought, and the silent mountains beyond. It is cause to believe that one day, all will be well with the world.

He would like to say, You must come and have a look for yourself.

But he couldn’t say it; it would commit him to something he couldn’t fully undertake.

Thank God for your steady improvement. This six- to twelve-month stretch of your immunodeficiency is a tough pull—but I should think everything depends on it. On the upside, your hundred days of staying out of the fray will soon be over—maybe a matinee (usually only a few people in the theater) and a box of popcorn?—I’ll Google your low-bacteria diet to see what is approved. No Milk Duds would be my guess.