Of bedlam. “Peter was unusual. Even for a Morton.”
“I’m sad I never met him.” She moved a little closer. “I always thought Garrett was a bit odd. Now I’m wondering if he’s the normal one.”
“He isn’t. He just lives far enough from the rest of us to pass.”
She smiled. “When we drove through the gate, a gentleman took my phone—he doesn’t get out much, does he?”
“Uncle Orrin. Not anymore.” Except for necessary mayhem.
“By the way, it’s clever to call a rabbit Rabbit. It’s unexpected, and funny.”
“The humor was unintentional.”
“Kids are always funniest when they aren’t trying to be.”
“Mortons too,” I said.
Hiromi laughed at this, swaying a little, her shoulder pressing against mine. A soft current began between us. “I’m sure Rabbit loved you, whatever you called him.”
I thought of his soft fur, his trusting eyes. The noises he made in the dark, while we visited the other Jessicas.
“I loved him too.” For care to die, love must be complete. Slay the rabbit, spare the child.
“Was red his favorite color?”
I turned to look at her. “Rabbit’s?”
“Peter’s.” She swept an arm across the crowd. “I’ve never seen this much red at a funeral before.”
Uncle Merwin’s pocket square. A Wolvaardt aunt in ruby slippers. The streak of red in Pava Seth’s hair. Grandmother, resplendent in oxblood, smiling as Garrett paid court to her. It was impossible to pretend it was all coincidence.
Besides, I felt pleasure in Hiromi’s scrutiny.
“You have sharp eyes. The red isn’t for Peter though. It’s one of our traditions.”
“Are you socialists?”
“Within the family, yes—we reserve capitalism for everyone else. But this is something older.” I decided to be honest. “Not the red of the French Revolution, but of the White Horse People.”
Hiromi only shook her head.
“Like Aztecs,” I said, “in Oxfordshire.”
She considered this as I sipped the last of my beetle-red drink. The wake seemed to turn a little wilder around us. Olga and Beatrice, Sebastian’s mothers, had taken to the dance floor.
“You don’t sacrifice your party guests, do you?” Hiromi asked.
“Not since the Late Bronze Age. And never friends.”
“Are we friends already?”
“We can wait, if you prefer. But why?”
“Why indeed.” Her smile confirmed what was growing in the air between us. Something that fluttered and fizzed.
I wanted very much to spend my summer in New York—even if it meant pretending to be an artist.
“Peter didn’t have a favorite color,” I said.
