"We are to be married come May," she says, smiling as if her face could break from joy.
We fawn over the ring and our teacher, peppering her with questions: How did he ask for her hand? When will they marry? May we all attend? It should be a London wedding-- no, a country wedding! For luck, will she wear orange blossoms? Will she wear them
in her hair or embroidered upon her dress?
"It is remarkable to think that even an old spinster such as I can find happiness." she says, laughing, but then I catch her straightening the third finger of her left hand. She's looking at the ring without wanting to seem as dazzled by it as she is. On the first Wednesday of the new year, we make our pilgrimage to Pippa's altar. We sit at the base of the old oak, watching for signs of spring, though we know they are months away yet.
"I've written Tom and told him the truth," Ann says.
"And?" Felicity prompts.
"He did not like being misled. He said that I was a horrible girl to have pretended to be someone I'm not."
"I am sorry, Ann," I say.
"Well, I think he is a boor and a poor sport besides," Felicity claims.
"No, he's not. He had every right to be cross with me."
There is nothing I can say to this. She is right.
"In books, the truth makes everything good and fine. The good prevail. The wicked are punished. There is happiness. But it's not like that really, is it?"
"No," I say."I suppose it only makes everything known."
We lean our heads back against the tree and look up at the puffy, white clouds.
"Why bother with it at all, then?" Ann says.
A cloud castle floats lazily by, becoming a dog in the process.
"Because you can't keep up the illusion forever," I say. "No one has that much magic."
For a long while, we sit, saying nothing. No one attempts to hold hands or tell a merry joke, to talk of what has happened or what is to come. We simply sit, our backs to the tree, our shoulders grazing one another. It is the lightest of touches and yet it is enough to weight me to the earth.
And for a moment, I understand that I have friends on this lonely path, that sometimes your place is not something you find, but something you have when you need it. The wind picks up. It sends the leaves scurrying for cover until a softer breeze blows through, settling them down again as if to say, Shhh, there, there, it's all right. One leaf still dances in the air. It spins higher and higher, defying gravity and logic, stretching for something just out of reach. It shall have to fall, of course. Eventually. But for now, I hold my breath, willing it to keep going, taking comfort in its struggle.
