And then there's a cry from baby Susan, and Amy opens her eyes to find that they're alone by the fireplace.
It's the nineteenth of November. A year, in way time is measured here, since last she saw Susan Delgado Allgood.
Amy closes her eyes again for a second, her fingers wrapped around her necklace, and there is joy and hope and love, and she whispers to no one in particular, "Thank you."
And then she gathers her daughter up out of the cradle, and settles her in her lap, and Susan quiets a little, and wraps her own hand around her mother's necklace.
"I am," says Amy softly, "am going to tell you a story. About two girls and a picnic they had, with two squirrels and a crow and the tiniest of elephants, with pizza and grapes, sitting on the floor of room at the end of the universe, because it was too cold and too dark to go outside . . ."
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It's the nineteenth of November. A year, in way time is measured here, since last she saw Susan Delgado Allgood.
Amy closes her eyes again for a second, her fingers wrapped around her necklace, and there is joy and hope and love, and she whispers to no one in particular, "Thank you."
And then she gathers her daughter up out of the cradle, and settles her in her lap, and Susan quiets a little, and wraps her own hand around her mother's necklace.
"I am," says Amy softly, "am going to tell you a story. About two girls and a picnic they had, with two squirrels and a crow and the tiniest of elephants, with pizza and grapes, sitting on the floor of room at the end of the universe, because it was too cold and too dark to go outside . . ."