The first to get home were Leon and Marion, Tel and Felicia. They returned from Swede’s Hill in silence. Greg was with them. Almost a week had passed since that night he’d had such broken rest, but he wanted to give it another day before be went home.

It wasn’t just the sense of personal loss that made them quiet. The world had changed. Everyone could feel it. The sky looked different. The color of air had shifted. They were no longer living in the same century they had lived in just six years before and the realization made them slightly dizzy.

Inside the house, there were footsteps, murmurs, the barely audible sound of cloth being folded and put away. Drawers opened and shut, hangers in closets clicked. Mourning clothes were being put aside.

Everyone was a little surprised to be hungry, though nobody said so. Marion made bacon sandwiches. They were eaten in the kitchen with no words other than thanks.

Normalcy began to return only when someone turned on the radio in the parlor. William Shirer’s voice seemed to draw everyone into the room.

Marion opened a book and took it to her usual chair next to the radio.

“Brother,” said Gregoire, “shall we play a game?” and the two men settled at the chessboard nearby. Leon wandered over to watch them.

Felicia took her seat near the fireplace.

At about 4:00 pm the phone rang. Leon left the room to answer it, there was a brief conversation, and then he returned.

“Who was it,” asked Tel.

“It was Roland at the Beacon. He asked how you were, Papa, and I told him you were recovering. He also has some news.”

“Oh yes?”

“Father Ignacio is leaving. Health problems.”

“Well, he’s a drunk,” said Tel.

“But that’s not why he’s going. They think he’s had some sort of nervous breakdown. And his hands are messed up. He’s picked up some kind of galloping infection in them.”

“They’re shipping him to a hospital back in Spain. They say they might have to… Well, it looks pretty bad.”

“He’ll live,” said Greg, without looking up from his game.

Felicia remained in her place near the fire.

Occasionally she would glance over at the little group, her face thoughtful.

Artiste and Laurette were not silent when they returned to Pond House. They talked as they walked of what needed to be done at Christ the Sailor, chores that had been neglected in the past week as they dealt with family matters.

The rainy season was coming, and Artiste needed to get Esau Patch, the sexton, to check the roof. Laurette would speak to Dr. Graves about the vaccinations at the orphanage, and she’d gotten a note last night that one of the boys, a newcomer, wasn’t eating. Poor little mite. First thing tomorrow she’d walk over with an elixer.

As soon as they stepped over the threshold, Laurette knew.

She wasn’t sure Artiste noticed. There were things he didn’t say to her — things they didn’t say to each other. Did he know? Did he know she knew?

“Change your clothes and rest, sweetheart,” she said. “I’ll get the soup started in just a moment.”

He kissed her on the cheek. “I’ll be reading in the study,” he said.

She went into the bathroom, closed the door behind her, breathed in deeply. If she shut her eyes, she could imagine she was standing on the beach with the waves lapping just at her feet.

This time it was the bathtub that was filled with sea-water. Even after Laurette pulled the plug, she would have to carefully rinse out the sand that had settled on the bottom.

“I wish,” she muttered as she rolled up her sleeve, “You’d tell me why you’ve begun doing this now.”

The last to return home was Greg. He left the day after the memorial.

Back where he belonged, he thought happily.

He liked to stop and look at his house before going in, his brown, comforting home tucked into the lushest green in the area. He savored the walk up the steps, the moment he crossed the threshold into his own world, his own place.

Upstairs, he changed into his California clothes. Plaid shirt, leather jacket. Blue jeans, since he wasn’t planning to go out, the work boots he’d picked up in Portland, and the belt Hannah had given him before flying back to New York. It transformed him more completely than any magic could. It made him happy in his own skin.

He would spend time in the garden, then fry a steak for dinner, pour himself some pear cider. That and a good book would make for a perfect evening.

But first, the Mavrides girl had just driven up and was coming up the steps. He opened the door just as she raised her hand to knock.

Little Eunice Mavrides.

They greeted each other the way they had since she was fourteen and he’d helped her with her French homework.

“Bonsoir Monsieur Duday!”

“Bonsoir You-Nee-Kee,” he said, and was rewarded with a luscious giggle.

“YOU-niss, Monsieur Duday. Votre…votre chat, il…” She sighed and gave up, letting out another rippling laugh. “He’s been waiting on your front porch. I think he missed you.”

“Bozidar missed me did he? Well that’s gratifying,” he said, shutting the door behind him and stepping forward a little. She stepped back, but not as far as he’d have liked.

“Sometimes, while you were gone, I came over just to stand in the back, near your pond. It’s so… so green here. And peaceful. I hope you don’t mind.”

“That’s all right as long as you’re careful.”

“Anyway, I was driving past just now and I saw your lights were on, and wanted to stop and welcome you back. Did you have a nice trip?”

“Yes very nice, my dear, very nice” he said, trying to sound as elderly as possible. “I hope you will tell your mother I brought back a bottle of that hot sauce I told her about. Sometime tomorrow I’ll drop it by.”

Monica Mavrides was a husky, no-nonsense, middle-aged divorcee who ran a kiln in Ojai with her “roommate,” another husky, no-nonsense woman named Esther. He liked Monica. She reminded him of Laurette.

“I could come in and pick it up now,” Eunice said her voice suddenly low and sultry. She stepped forward a little and looked meaningfully into Greg’s eyes.

“No, no, my dear, I must unpack it first. Goodness, so much unpacking to do. And dusting and setting things to rights. Airing the place out…”

He was past sounding just old and was now well into old and prissy, which was further than he’d wanted to go. “But do tell your mother I’ll be around tomorrow to catch up on all the gossip.”

“Okay, Monsieur Duday,” she said.

“I’ll see you later.” She turned and walked lightly down the steps, her hair bouncing against her shoulders. Then she turned back to him and smiled, raising one hand and tickling the air with her fingers before getting into her car.

Greg watched her drive away. Christ, she wasn’t even twenty. Where did girls here get such ideas?

He loved California, but every now and then he still felt like an island yokel. On Touperdu, he’d talk to Laurette, who would talk to Eunice’s mother, but here…

Was there some tactful way for him to tell Monica she needed to marry Eunice off as soon as possible?

Bozidar was waiting in the living room, watching Greg and twitching his stubby tail.

“Tell you what,” Greg said to him. “There’s a mouse rooting around under the cabinet next to the stove. Take care of it and I’ll open a can of tuna for you later tonight.”

Bozidar let out a brief, non-committal mrrr, but he trotted into the kitchen.

As soon as Greg stepped into his room, the weariness from the past week began to lift.

His room. Not his bedroom, which was upstairs, but his truly private place, his room, where all his favorite things were kept. His pictures, his books.

His best wand.

He had made it himself. It had taken him three years of careful concentration, pacing, molding. Not once had he allowed himself to go too far and not once had he put in too little, and the result had been amazing. It was his. It was perfect. It was beautiful.

It was very, very powerful.

He stepped out onto his back porch. The nights here were not like the nights on the Island. The music was different. But it was still music.

Really, he had things to attend to in the garden. He should be getting some dirt under his nails.

But that circle he’d set up was so fine.

We walked back into his room and reached for his wand. It practically leapt into his hand.

In his back yard, outside his circle, he bent his head, concentrated, a little afraid, holding the wand loosely, turning it over in his hand. What if his Talent were permanently diminished? There were stories of that happening to those who’d overreached, especially those who had used their Talent for — what he had done. Not the profound crime, but still…

And then…

Wind scudding over the mountains and stirring the tree-tops, the creak of crickets, the hum of a distant car driving through the pass and the longing of a man, his hands resting on the wheel as he thought of home and hummed softly a song he’d heard on the radio. The rustling of a deer through the brush, its faint breath as it felt branches scraping its soft brown sides, the laughter from Monica and Esther’s dinner table as they teased Eunice, the faint wail of Bozidar’s wild sire somewhere far, far, away..

The music of the California night rose like a tide around his home and filled him with something like joy.