Jadis awoke the next morning in her plush, canopied bed: a mahogany frame sculpted beautifully from a single ream of heartwood, dressed in white counterpane. She didn’t clearly recollect her return to the house the previous evening—it felt like she’d dreamt it all; though she guessed that was the chillum’s doing, in tandem with the dark and her exhaustion. She stretched—naked brown skin dappled with streaks of gold morning light emanating from the window.

In a fuchsia sari and bangles of plate bronze and yellow lightning-glass, Jadis entered the dining room and sat at the table—not making eye contact with her sister or mother just yet. Jadis was sure Finis had told their mother all about the secret site and demanded it be razed; or if she hadn’t demanded it, Jamäis certainly would. She was somewhat surprised that they seemed to be talking normally—they’d typically be suspiciously silent if they’d been in an unpleasant mood—though they did not seem to acknowledge Jadis’ presence. They chatted on about the weather, and the solstice, and how surely it was providence that sent the favorable conditions for the festival.

Breakfast was a kind of potpie—or that’s what Jadis would have said it was—confected of carrots, peas, savory meat (likely pork), and some unidentifiable orange seasoning Jadis quite liked after tasting. Poppyseed bread was served with a bowl of oily grey condiment—but Jadis was quite satisfied with the pie-thing. Jamäis seemed to prefer the bread to the main meal; not even saucing it. Meanwhile, Finis sampled of all: which pleased Jadis. The kitchen staff had evidently taken Tujur’s plates, but his crumpled napkin was still left where they’d been, signifying he had already eaten before Jadis awoke.

“Jadis,” said Jamäis, abruptly, “you know better than to corrupt your sister.”

“Mother, I meant nothing by it,” Jadis replied stiffly, “We were merely—”

“Dandelion wine?” Jamäis clucked sharply, interrupting, “To imbibe is a sin.”

Jadis felt slightly ridiculous, inwardly—not having considered her mother may be captious over any number of things without knowing about the secret grove.

“It was a holiday!” Jadis smiled, “What’s one or two sips of watery dandelion wine on a special occasion? We weren’t drunk; the stable boys only keep a little.”

“Why were you not at the ceremonies? You were missed at the pageant.”

Jadis hated the pageant more than anything in the summertime. Twenty-five sweaty, costumed men in ludicrous makeup, surrounded by a throng of bad singers clanging cymbals and chimes, reenacting the rape of the Summer Queen by the evil Harvest Mouse and his bumbling sidekick, Toad. It was supposed to represent the end of summer and arrival of autumn—with the terribly unsubtle symbolism of the Summer Queen’s verdant peepul-leaf kirtle being caked with heaps of cinnabar after her molestation. It just seemed such a tiresome affair. Every year the same claptrap. Harvest Mouse always raped the Summer Queen and impregnated her with cereals, Summer Queen always wept a lot and looked very unladylike—since invariably it was a sinewy young man in drag that portrayed her—and idiot Toad always tripped over his own feet and behaved like an absolute imbecile.

“Don’t think that it was Jadis’ fault, mother,” Finis finally commented, “She and I acted concordantly. If she has corrupted me, then I have corrupted her also.”

Jamäis chortled slightly—like the sound of a hen adjusting itself on the nest—and put another little morsel of poppyseed bread in her mouth.

“You corrupt her?” she answered Finis, “I do not think that at all possible.”

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