He said, as if in a trance, staring at the flower: “Little you know what so simple a thing has cost me”; and as he finished speaking, a petal fell from the rose, although it was unharmed and blooming.

I disliked promises on principle because my conscience made me keep them.

I sat farther out on the window ledge, spraying him with birdseed as he stood below. “Oh—er, sorry,” I said. His face split into a white smile, and he said, “Aren’t you coming for your walk in the garden? The sun is getting high,” and he brushed cracked corn and sunflower seeds from his shoulders.

“I can deny you nothing,” he said at last, “if you truly want it. Even if it should cost me my life.”

Grace would have looked magnificent in a throne. I feel foolish.

The clicking of my boot-heels had as much effect on that massive silence as the sweep of a butterfly’s wings might.

“You will leave tomorrow morning?” His voice was a little unsteady. I looked up at him, around at all of them. “I must. I’m sorry. Please try to understand. I promised.” Father tried to smile, but didn’t quite manage it. “You were well named,” he said.

He said “Thank you” to the air in general, and felt suddenly that the silence was a listening one.

“We can’t spare you, child,” said Father. “Mmph,” I said. “We can’t spare you.”