No, sometime later, perhaps, he thought. Although he didn't think he would ever do it 
that way. Maybe just drink something strong, something that crept through you and 
poisoned you slowly, and then crawl in bed beside her and hold onto her, and go to sleep 
with her in his arms.
  
  When she dies, he thought. Yes. That's exactly what I'll do.
  
  He had to remember to take the gun away and put it someplace safe.  With all the 
children, you never knew what would happen. They had brought children to see Rowan this 
morning-and St. Patrick's Day would draw the children, as well. Big parade on Magazine 
Street only two blocks away. Floats. People throwing potatoes and cabbages-all the 
makings of an Irish stew. The family loved it; they'd told him. He would love it too.
  
  But move the gun. Do that. One of the children might see it.
  
  Silence.
  
  The rain falling. The house creaking as if it were populated when it was not. A door 
slamming somewhere as if in the wind. Maybe a door of a car outside, or the door of 
another house. Sound could play tricks on you like that.
  
  Rain tapping on the granite windowsills, a sound peculiar to this octagonal and ornate 
room.
  
  "I wish ... I wish there was someone to whom I could ... confess," he said softly. "The 
main thing for you to know is that you never have to worry anymore. It's finished, the 
way I think you wanted it finished.  I just wish there was some kind of final absolution. 
It's strange. It was so bad when I failed at Christmas. And now somehow it's harder, that 
I've won. There are some battles you don't want to fight. And winning costs too much."
  
  Rowan's face remained unchanged.
  
  "You want some music, darling?" he asked. "You want to hear that old gramophone? I 
frankly find it a comforting sound. I don't think anybody else is listening to it now but 
you, and me. But I'd like to play it. Let me go get it."
  
  He stood up and bent down to kiss her. Her soft mouth gave no resistance. Taste of 
lipstick. High school. He smiled. Maybe the nurse had put on the lipstick. He could 
barely see it. She looked past him. She looked pale and beautiful and plain.
  
  In the attic room, he found the gramophone. He gathered it up, along with the records 
of La Traviata. He stood still, holding this light burden, once again entranced by the 
simple combination of rain and sun.
  
  The window was closed.
  
  The floor was clean.
  
  He thought of Julien again, the instantaneous Julien standing in the front doorway, 
blocking Lasher's path. "And I haven't even thought of you since that moment," he said. 
"I guess I hope and pray you've gone on."
  
  The moments ticked by. He wondered if he could ever use this room again. He stared at 
the window, at the edge of the porch roof. He remembered that flashing glimmer of Antha 
gesturing for Lasher to come. "Make the dead come back to witness," he whispered. "That 
you did."
  
  He walked down the steps slowly, stopping quite suddenly, in alarm, before he knew 
exactly why. What was this sound? He was holding the gramophone and the records, and now 
he set them carefully down and out of the way.
  
  A woman was crying, or was it a child? It was a soft heartbroken crying. And it wasn't 
the nurse. She wouldn't be back for hours. No.  And the crying came from Rowan's room.
  
  He didn't dare to hope it was Rowan! He didn't dare, and he knew as well as he knew 
anything else that it wasn't Rowan's voice.
  
  "Oh, darling dear," said the crying voice. "Darling dear, I love you so much. Yes, 
drink it, drink the milk, take it, oh, poor Mother, poor darling dear."
  
  His mind could find no explanation; it was empty and consumed with silent fear. He went 
down the steps, careful not to make a sound, and, turning, peered through the bedroom 
door.
  
  A great tall girl sat on the side of the bed, a long willowy white thing, tall and thin 
as Lasher had been, with reddish-golden locks falling down her long graceful back. It was 
the girl he had glimpsed below in the street! In her arms the girl held Rowan, Rowan, who 
was sitting up and clinging to her, actually clinging to her, and nursing from the girl's 
bare right breast.
  
  "That's it, dear Mother, drink it, yes," said the girl, and the tears splattered right 
out of her big green eyes and down her cheeks. "Yes, Mother, drink, oh, it hurts but 
drink it! It's our milk. Our strong milk."
  
  And then the giant girl drew back and tossed her hair, and gave Rowan the left breast. 
Frantically, Rowan drank from it, her left hand rising, groping, as if to catch hold of 
the girl's head.
  
  The girl saw him. Her tear-filled eyes opened wide. Just like Lasher's eyes, so big and 
wide! Her face was a perfect oval. Her mouth a cherub's mouth.
  
  A muted sound came from Rowan, and then suddenly Rowan's back straightened, and her 
left hand caught the girl's hair tight. She drew back away from the breast and out of her 
mouth came a loud and terrible scream:
  
  "Michael, Michael, Michael!"
  
  Rowan shrank back against the headboard, drawing up her knees, and staring and pointing 
to the girl, who had leapt up and put her hands over her ears.