Lily said as she sat on the doorstep after school with the Indian, who had returned from adding more nails to roofs, his orders from Jack Sinclair before he rode off the place. “Month by month instead of year by year is perfect.” “Chantal is only six,” Pierre said. “Think how small would be her winter count of what she remembers. And your idea of May to May was best. It still gives them much to think about.” Too much, she thought, drawing up her knees to rest her chin on them. It was vastly unladylike, but she was tired. She turned to Pierre. “The Sansevers each drew such sad pictures for March! Come, I’ll show you.” He followed her into the classroom, looking where she pointed at the individual winter counts spread on each desk. His smile looked wistful to Lily as he ran his finger above each sad picture, as if to touch it would invite ruin. “But look how true to character, Lily. Nick has drawn Jean falling off a horse; Amelie’s picture is a headstone; and here is a little girl in tears for Chantal.”
