Talk to nice sleep.

Part 4.

Fall.

Season of the Turquoise Mask.

He does not dream that final night, because he does not sleep.

He lies atop the soft linen sheet of their mattress, dressed only in his scars and a sheen

of cool sweat.

Starling is curled up beside him, one hand across his

chest, the other resting on her stomach. She wears the medallion around her neck and nothing

else. Harlow pets the back of her head, gentle strokes. Dawn is almost here. The curtain door moves in an autumnal breeze, beckoning soft

golden light with each flutter. A tiny voice winds sleepily and a chair creaks. Arlo leans his head

all the way back on the pillow, staring into the darkness.

The objects set along the back wall take shape, the clothing racks, sagging under the weight

of Starling's many dresses.

Then the crib, where one-year-old Ziggy stands, clinging to the bars, wide-eyed and

snotty-nosed, and beside the crib, an old woman in a white robe and ceramic sun mask,

sitting up in a rocking chair with little heron on her lap.

Starling yawns and shifts her body on the mattress.

Is it morning? she whispers.

Soon, says Arlo. In her chair, Granny Violet starts to rock back and forth,

the wooden joints of the chair squeaking like a wounded animal. Are you ready, sweetheart?

Harlow turns to look at Starling. Her eyes are half open, her mouth half smiling.

...