Keir kept his hand open while Blythe looked at the copper strip. The crooked amber flower stood just beyond her, lighting the underside of her wrist. He had thought, when she opened the door, that he understood what she was offering. Up close, with the glass so small and particular, he was less certain he understood anything.
“You can keep Sunday,” he said.
She looked up.
“If you close this door. Sunday is still yours.”
“I know what you meant.”
“I wanted to hear myself say it.”
Her fingers rested on the strip. The rest of the garden shone behind her, seven turns leading into blue. Somewhere in the house an ordinary clock continued its work, indifferent to light and lovers and the danger of making an occasion too large to refuse.
“If I do this,” she said, “I shall be unhappy about part of it.”
“Yes.”
“That will not…
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