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carrying him tirelessly forward； forward； forward。 all the while he fingered the missus’s needle in his pocket。 his finger…tips were a bloody； scabby mess。 he missed isabelle。
charlie lived like this through september； october； november； december； january and february； and at the beginning of march； isabelle returned。
charlie was in the kitchen； tracing his footsteps； when he heard the sound of hooves and wheels approaching the house。 scowling； he went to the window。 he wanted no visitors。
a familiar figure stepped down from the car—and his heart stood still。
he was at the door； on the steps； beside the car all in one moment； and isabelle was there。
he stared at her。
isabelle laughed。 “here；” she said； “take this。” and she handed him a heavy parcel wrapped up in cloth。 she reached into the back of the carriage and took something out。 “and this one。” he tucked it obediently under his arm。 “now； what i’d like most in the world is a very large brandy。”
stunned； charlie followed isabelle into the house and to the study。 she made straight for the drinks cupboard and took out glasses and a bottle。 she poured a generous slug into a glass and drank it in one go； showing the whiteness of her throat； then she refilled her own glass and the second； which she held out to her brother。 he stood there； paralyzed and speechless； his hands full with the tightly wrapped bundles。 isabelle’s laughter resounded about his ears again and it was like being too close to an enormous church bell。 his head started to spin and tears sprang to his eyes。 “put them down；” isabelle instructed。 “we’ll drink a toast。” he took the glass and inhaled the spirit fumes。 “to the future！” he swallowed the brandy in one gulp and coughed at its unfamiliar burn。
‘you haven’t even seen them； have you？“ she asked。
he frowned。
‘look。“ isabelle turned to the parcels he had placed on the study desk； pulled the soft wrapping away； and stood back so that he could see。 slowly he turned his head and looked。 the parcels were babies。 two babies。 twins。 he blinked。 registered dimly that some kind of response was called for； but didn’t know what he was supposed to say or do。
‘oh； charlie； wake up； for goodness’ sake！“ and his sister took both his hands in hers and dragged him into a madcap dance around the room。 she swirled him around and around and around； until the dizziness started to clear his head； and when they came to a halt she took his face in her hands and spoke to him。 ”roland’s dead； charlie。 it’s you and me now。 do you understand？“
he nodded。
‘good。 now； where’s pa？“
when he told her； she was quite hysterical。 the missus； roused from the kitchen by the shrill cries； put her to bed in her old room； and when at last she was quiet again； asked； “these babies… what are they called？”
‘march；“ isabelle responded。
but the missus knew that。 word of the marriage had reached her some months before； and news of the birth （she’d not needed to count the months on her fingers； but she did it anyway and pursed her lips）。 she knew of roland’s death from pneumonia a few weeks ago； knew too how old mr。 and mrs。 march； devastated by the death of their only son and repelled by the fey insouciance of their new daughter…in…law； now quietly shunned isabelle and her children； wishing only to grieve。
‘what about christian names？“
‘adeline and emmeline；“ said isabelle sleepily。
‘and how do you tell them apart？“
but the child…widow was sleeping already。 and as she dreamed in tier old bed； her escapade and her husband already forgotten； her virgin’s name was restored to her。 when she woke in the morning it would be as if her marriage had never been； and the babies themselves would appear to her not as her own children—she had not a single maternal bone in her body—
but as mere spirits of the house。
the babies slept； too。 in the kitchen； the missus and the gardener dent over their smooth； pale faces and talked in low voices。
‘which one is which？“ he asked。
‘i don’t know。“
one each side of the old crib； they watched。 two half…moon sets of lashes； two puckered mouths； two downy scalps。 then one of the babies gave a little flutter of the eyelids and half opened one eye。 the gardener and the missus held their breath。 but the eye closed again and the baby lapsed into sleep。
‘that one can be adeline；“ the missus whispered。 she took a striped tea towel from a drawer and cut strips from it。 she plaited the strips into two lengths； tied the red one around the wrist of the baby who had stirred； the white one around the wrist of the baby who had not。
housekeeper and gardener； each with a hand on the crib； watched； until the missus turned a glad and tender face to the gardener and spoke again。
‘two babies。 honestly； dig。 at our age！“
when he raised his eyes from the babies； he saw the tears that misted her round brown eyes。
his rough hand reached out across the crib。 she wiped her foolishness away and； smiling； put her small； plump hand in his。 he felt the wetness of her tears pressed against his own fingers。
beneath the arch of their clasped hands； beneath the trembling line of their gaze； the babies were dreaming。
it was late when i finished transcribing the story of isabelle and charlie。 the sky was dark and the house was asleep。 all of the afternoon and evening and for part of the night i had been bent over my desk； with the story retelling itself in my ears while my pencil scratched line after line； obeying its dictation。 my pages were densely packed with script： miss winter’s own flood of words。 from time to time my hand moved to the left and i scribbled a note in the left…hand margin； when her tone of voice or a gesture seemed to be part of the narrative itself。
now i pushed the last sheet of paper from me； set down my pencil and clenched and stretched my aching fingers。 for hours miss winter’s voice had conjured another world； raising the dead for me； and i had seen nothing but the puppet show her words had made。 but when her voice fell still in my head； her image remained and i remembered the gray cat that had appeared； as if by magic； on her lap。 silently he had sat under her stroking hand； regarding me fixedly with his round yellow eyes。 if he saw my ghosts； if he saw my secrets； he did not seem the least perturbed； but only blinked and continued to stare indifferently。
‘what’s his name？“ i had asked。
‘shadow；“ she absently replied。
at last in bed； i turned out the light and closed my eyes。 i could still feel the place on the pad of my finger where the pencil had made a groove in my skin。 in my right shoulder； a knot from writing was not yet ready to untie itself。 though it was dark； and though my eyes were closed； all i could see was a sheet of paper； lines of my own handwriting with wide margins。 the right…hand margin drew my attention。 unmarked； pristine； it glowed white； made my eyes sting。 it was the column i reserved for my own ments； notes and questions。
in the dark； my fingers closed around a ghost pencil and twitched in response to the questions that penetrated my drowsiness。 i wondered about the secret tattoo charlie b