“Then what did she do?” Rosemary’s quick breath frosts the air.

“After screaming like a banshee and running up and down the stairs? She pulled the pine garlands off the banister, ” I recall. “And she ordered the hired man to take away the Christmas tree and the ivy wreaths.” I’ve been saving up this story and am probably too satisfied with the shock in the girls’ faces, though it’s all true.

Besides, the Wortley sisters indeed, all of Brookline must have heard some version of how Aunt Clara first took the news of Will’s death.

“Mrs. Pritchett’s got a boiling-hot temper.” Flora shakes her head in dismay. “She would have been a fright to behold.”

Christmas service is over. The familiar faces in the pews, the flickering candles in the stained-glass windows, the timeworn story of the baby in his crèche, and the hot cider and gingerbread in the long room afterward have given me a small and temporary peace.

Arm in arm, Flora, Rosemary, and I now walk the pebbled pathway that winds down to the Walnut Street Cemetery. My hands hold a single poinsettia, stealthily broken off the altar arrangement, to place on Toby’s grave.

Aunt Clara and Uncle Henry linger near the vestry, consulting with Reverend Meeks, but I don’t want to hear Aunt insisting that Will’s service is given proper fanfare. Especially when Toby was buried in the same pine box he came home in and Aunt wore black for less than a month.