Big events are in the offing. Ron and I are going off to the beach for a long weekend with another couple and we didn’t invite the kids. This is the first time we’ve gone on a pleasure trip without them. Part of it is that Walker has chess and we’re still taking turns staying home to play with and take care of the kitten, Pippin. So Eleanor will have a last bonding experience with him. I have Pippin scheduled for his last vaccination on Aug. 12, rabies. He has to weigh five pounds before he can get that one, and he can’t run around outside like our other two cats until he has it. I also don’t want him to run around outside much before he’s neutered, but we’re going to have to schedule that after I come back from Tucson, and I suspect that as soon as he reaches five pounds, he’s going to be able to push open the cat door. Eleanor and I start our road trip on Aug. 13 and I’ll be flying back sometime the next week, before Kenyon classes begin on Aug. 27.
Finding my balance with two adult children at home has been interesting this summer. I think we’ve done okay at trying to be spontaneous, especially with planning and fixing meals. We’ve not done as many of the summer things we usually look forward to, like cookouts and trips to the lake, because the weather has been too cool and rainy and we haven’t wanted to entertain on the deck too much in the damp, mosquito-y shade with the kitten left lonely inside the house or on his leash and halter (yes, he puts up with it to get to go out). We’ve all had fun playing with Pippin and occasionally (during those rare moments when he’s calm) petting him. I was reading (in one of the books about cats I had out from the library) that we don’t often think about the fact that we’re not breeding many of our pet cats for desirable traits like being cuddly. Instead, by neutering and spaying our pets, we’re developing new generations of cats from feral toms and stray females, cats who are fierce and clever enough to survive on their own. Pippin certainly demonstrates that. This does not mean that we’re not getting him neutered as soon as we can find a day to stay home with him while he recovers. He’ll be six months old, the recommended age, at the end of September.
On the eve of our long weekend at the beach, which is itself on the eve of our 33rd wedding anniversary, I am rattling around the house trying to work through some of the stacks of books and papers so I can make more organized stacks for fall, and thinking about John Berryman’s Dream Songs, particularly #70:
Disengaged, bloody, Henry rose from the shell
where in their racing start his seat got wedged
under his knifing knees,
he did it on the runners, feathering,
being bow, catching no crab. The ridges were sore
& tore chamois. It was not done with ease.
So, Henry was a hero, malgre lui,
That day, for blunder; until & after the coach
Said this & which to him.
That happy day, whenas the pregnant back
of Number Two returned, and he’d no choice
but to make for it room.
Therefore he rowed rowed rowed. They did not win.
Forever in the winning & losing since
of his own crew, or rather
in the weird regattas of this afterworld,
cheer for the foe. He set himself to time
the blue father.
The summer seems like it is racing away from me already, and planning a 3 or 4 day trip across the country seems so perilous, all that highway driving with chances of accidents or falling asleep or actually getting to our destination and having to say goodbye to my oldest child without any definite plan about the next time she’s coming home. College has breaks. Life…not so much.
Have you had a child leave home? How do you manage to “cheer for the foe” of her burgeoning independence while feeling she’s “in the weird regattas of this afterworld,” racing competently away from you?
I read a little of a book about a necromancer and put it down, picking up a book about 18th century Scotland and then putting it down. What else do I have around here that I’ve been meaning to read, I wondered, and picked up Donna Tartt’s The Goldfinch from where I’d put it after reading all the comments on my post about The Secret History. I might as well start this one, I thought. It was 4 pm. I didn’t put it down for more than a few minutes until 11:30 pm, and got up the next morning to finish it. Although I lost some of the impetus to keep reading in the second half of the novel, during which the main character, as Tartt’s characters so often do, loses himself in a cloud of guilt, drugs, and drink, the ending restored my faith that the journey would have an actual destination.
The novel begins in a place where you don’t know why the narrator, Theo, should be, and then segues immediately into his story about why his mother’s death was his fault, and then the story of what happened that day. Several things about that day are his fault, but the reader sees that his mother’s death is not one of them; that he’s simply reacting as thirteen-year-olds often do to the loss of a parent. After some horrifying scenes in which no one takes any particular notice of him as he crawls out of the wreckage of a bombed art museum and looks for his mother, who had been with him, he is suddenly faced with the nightmare of having to find someone to live with. He’s quick-witted enough to name the family of a friend, and they take him in, temporarily, and help shield him from all the publicity he gets as one of the only survivors. That’s the first big sweep of the novel. Amid all the uproar is the story of how he takes part of a message from a dying man and also one of the paintings from the wreckage of the room he was in. When he finally delivers part of the dying man’s message, he has forgotten the warning in it. He makes a friend of the dying man’s partner, Hobie, and a mysterious girl, Pippa, who was also with him at the museum.
During the middle part of the novel, Theo lives with his father, who had abandoned him and his mother but has now come back to see if he can claim any of the mother’s life insurance money, which she has tied up in trusts to prevent this very thing. He makes a friend named Boris, a Russian, and acquires a formerly neglected dog named Popper, a maltese. Boris and Theo take care of each other and the dog as best they can, with Boris sharing his cynicism and his drugs with Theo. When he sees a letter Hobie has written to Theo, Boris says “people promise to write and they don’t….But this fellow writes you all the time.” It seems like Theo has hit rock bottom, running from fathers’ rages and living hand to mouth, and yet Boris and his girlfriend Kotku remind him that other kids have had it even worse: “she thinks you’re spoiled. That you haven’t been through nearly the kind of stuff that she and I have.”
When the father kills himself by driving drunk and they have to part suddenly, Theo, still underage, goes back to New York City with the dog in hopes of living with Hobie. Luckily Hobie agrees, and Theo eventually becomes his business partner, replacing the man whose hand he held as he was dying in the museum wreckage. Although he loves Pippa, who still passes through New York City now and then, she does not reciprocate his feelings, except as a fellow survivor: “I wrote thirty-page emails to her that I erased without sending, opting instead for the mathematical formula I’d devised to keep from making too big a fool of myself: always three lines shorter than the email she’d sent, always one day longer than I’d waited for her reply.”
Although Theo now can live a pleasant, upper-class urban life, engaged to the younger daughter of the family who had taken him in when he was a child, Kitsey, he spirals down into depression, saying “the antidepressants I’d been dutifully swallowing for eight weeks hadn’t helped a bit” and realizing that he’s become addicted to various narcotic and painkillers. When Theo thinks about weaning himself off of the drugs to which he’s become addicted, he thinks that he will see everything as he’d once been taught to see the work of the golden age Dutch painters: “ripeness sliding into rot. The fruit’s perfect but it won’t last, it’s about to go.” He thinks about people, that “even the beautiful ones were like soft fruit about to spoil.” Theo has been convinced that “To understand the world at all, sometimes you could only focus on a tiny bit of it, look very hard at what was close to hand and make it stand in for the whole,” but when he thinks he has lost the painting he saved from the wreckage, The Goldfinch, he feels “drowned and extinguished by vastness—not just the predictable vastness of time, and space, but the impassable distances between people even when they were within arm’s reach of each other.”
Just when I was about to get totally disgusted with him, things begin to happen and Theo begins to see that some of the distances he’s been perceiving are not as far away as he thought they were. Chance, which has already played a big role in Theo’s life, plays an even bigger one, although Theo always says “it didn’t seem like chance to me.” Boris tries to tell him, when he’s ended up where the novel began, in Amsterdam, that the character of Prince Myshkin in The Idiot might show that “sometimes—the wrong way is the right way? You can take the wrong path and it still comes out where you want to be? Or, spin it another way, sometimes you can do everything wrong and it still turns out to be right?”
In the end, Theo says that “everything I love or care about is illusion, and yet—for me, anyway—all that’s worth living for lies in that charm.” He also admits that “maybe I only see a pattern because I’ve been staring too long. But then again, to paraphrase Boris, maybe I see a pattern because it’s there.” The way the author has held a mirror up to Theo’s life shows readers a pattern, while his doubt echoes the individual doubt each reader always has about how much an individual life means. Theo wonders whether there can be a “truth beyond illusion…between reality on one hand, and the point where the mind strikes reality…a rainbow edge where beauty comes into being, where two very different surfaces mingle and blur to provide what life does not: and this is the space where all art exists, and all magic.”
Since he’s a character in a novel, his “reality” is different from ours, but if you find beauty in the patterns of this novel, then you’re able to see that place where the mind strikes reality, and affects it. Like a satirist subtly managing to tell his audience what they ought to value while he excoriates what they ought to reject, Donna Tartt has drawn her readers into a perception challenge in her novel about art, making it an artful novel.
We drove to Canada last week to see plays at the Shakespeare Festival in Stratford and the Shaw Festival in Niagara-on-the-Lake. We saw Hamlet, The Physicists, Oedipus Rex, and She Stoops to Conquer on Tuesday and Wednesday in Stratford. Then we drove to Niagara-on-the-Lake to see Pygmalion on Thursday night, Light Up the Sky on Friday night, Sweet Charity and The Intelligent Homosexual’s Guide to Capitalism and Socialism with a Key to the Scriptures on Saturday, and then Peter and the Starcatcher and You Can Never Tell on Sunday. The trip was my mother’s graduation gift to Eleanor.
The plays were all remarkably good. Hamlet was a standout for me; it’s not my favorite Shakespeare play, but Jonathan Goad really made the character come alive. He was an athletic Hamlet, more like Mel Gibson’s action movie Hamlet than the more buttoned-up and contemplative Hamlet in Kenneth Branagh’s too-long version. The cuts were just right; the play was long enough for the audience to consider the ins and outs with Hamlet, but not so long we got weary of the debate.
Although it was well done, I didn’t particularly care for The Physicists, a 1964 play about the dangers of scientific knowledge outpacing the human capacity for wisdom in using that knowledge. The program says it was adapted by Michael Healey from the original by Friedrich Durrenmatt, but aside from the female villain’s Edna-from-the-Incredibles eyeglasses, it didn’t reflect much that is contemporary.
The staging of Oedipus Rex turned a story that, after years of singing P.D.Q. Bach’s Oedipus Tex (“you murdered your father, you married your mother, you rascal you”) had become a punch line for me, back into a tragedy. Some of this happened because of the literal nakedness of the blinded character in his misery, finally folded into a raincoat by Creon at the end of the play.
After Oedipus Rex, we took a walk along the water to see the swans and cygnets and the geese and goslings.
She Stoops to Conquer was outstanding, getting laughs at every possible line. Since we were sitting in the front row, we were among the few audience members who might have had a quibble with the casting of the at-least-30-year-old Maev Beaty as 18-year-old Kate Hardcastle.
Our first play at the Shaw Festival was Pygmalion, and it was outstanding. Updated beautifully to the present, it took a new look at how we recognize class and whether we think enough about the effect of research on its subjects.
When we were looking in the “shawp” at the Festival Theater, I found this book but didn’t buy it.
Light Up the Sky is an old Moss Hart play about putting on a play. I didn’t enjoy it as much as the rest, partly because it was my turn to sit in the back of the theater with my mother, in the handicapped accessible seating, where we couldn’t see or hear as well as when we sat farther forward in the theater.
Sweet Charity was fantastic—the singing! The dancing! The sets! The old songs that everyone recognizes! Did you know this is where “Big Spender” and “If My Friends Could See Me Now” come from?
Early on, The Intelligent Homosexual’s Guide to Capitalism and Socialism with a Key to the Scriptures features an argument about whether Shaw’s Major Barbara is a good play, which got a big laugh at the Shaw Festival. Tony Kushner’s play had some trademark Kushner moments—the scenes where the actors are shouting over each other, and the self-referential dialogue. It was a long play, and had a wonderfully climactic scene right before the second intermission. The part after that second intermission spent too much of the good will built up by the climax by plodding on too long; the last act should be much briefer. Overall, though, we enjoyed seeing this one.
We posed for a photo by the statue of Shaw in the center of the downtown area.
Peter and the Starcatcher was a highlight of the theatrical week, even after all the other good plays we’d seen. The actors were clearly enjoying themselves, their comic timing was perfect, the costuming and the way they used the stage was fun, and the entire experience was more splendid than I can describe. My youngest niece waited at the stage door to get Peter’s autograph afterwards, and her mother said that every single actor who came out was smiling.
You Can Never Tell was our last play, Shaw seemingly flavored a bit by Oscar Wilde. The costumes and the set were opulent, and the actors were by no means eclipsed by all the splendor. It was a fitting end to a great week of theater.
I highly recommend seeing two plays a day while on vacation. It’s particularly nice if you can mix the tragedies and serious dramas with comedies and musicals.
There’s a big surprise at the beginning of Jo Walton’s new novel The Philosopher Kings that may take readers of the first one, The Just City, aback. It certainly did me. But then the book got better and better until at the end, I thought it was even better than the first one had been. One of the things that “makes this book so great,” to use Walton’s own phrase, is that in the end, there are spaceships and aliens.
But this is a sequel to her book about Athena’s plan to establish a version of Plato’s republic. In this book, the characters are continuing to pursue excellence in order to become Philosopher Kings. This one centers on Pytheas, who is Apollo in mortal form, and his children, especially his daughter Arete (“excellence”) who is 15 and almost ready to take her city’s adulthood tests. She lives in the original “Just” city, but now there are other cities established by its former inhabitants, with different interpretations of what is “just” and “excellent.” Plays, for instance, banned in the original city, are now allowed because the younger generation have voted for them. Arete’s teacher Ficino tells her “as far as I know they’re allowed in Sokratea and the City of Amazons, but banned in Psyche and Athenia.” The conflict in the novel is that the inhabitants of the different cities all want the art that was collected for the original Just City, and they are now conducting “art raids” with real weapons in order to get it and take it to their own cities.
Arete and Pythea, along with some of her brothers and the masters Ficino and Maia, go on a sea voyage to visit some of the other cities and recover a certain piece of art, and along the way she explains what has puzzled readers of Homer in the modern era: “when I looked up and out the sea was, well, wine-dark as Homer puts it. The sea was a deep dark blue of precisely the same reflective luminosity as rich red wine.”
Some of the farthest cities, the ones established by Kebes, who has taken back his original name of Matthias, turn out to be Christian; Aristomache explains to Arete and Maia that “Yayzu came down to Earth to save us all” when they find her in the city that Matthias has named Lucia.
The long-simmering conflict between Kebes/Matthias and Pythea/Apollo come to a head in this book, and they challenge each other to a contest, the prize for which is the legal ability for the victor to kill the loser. There are additional reasons for conflict in this book, but the root of it, as Pythea explains, is that “he was my dark and twisted mirror, and forced me to confront” things like the wish to “possess” Simmea.
Readers’ ideas are carried along the spectrum of what should be legal and what is acceptable because we’ve always known about it all the way to what is brutal and horrible beyond imagining when a winner is declared in the contest between Kebes/ Matthias and Pythea/Apollo. Arete looks at the tools Kebes has brought with him to the contest
“with a start of horror. Once he had pointed it out I could imagine it all too easily. Bound to the wood by the iron rings and the straps, and then skinned alive. How horrible! Even worse than crucifixion. Surely all incarnate gods didn’t have to end up dying in horrible ways? Surely? Aristomache said Yayzu had come back in his divine form, but she hadn’t mentioned what he’d done to the torturers afterward. I hoped it was something really appropriate.”
As the contest begins, Arete
“looked down at the little knives where they were laid out so neatly. Everyone in the crowd seemed to recognize them. This must be something they did often enough to have the tools for it. And, most disturbing of all, they came crowding into the colosseum and brought their children to watch.”
We learn, along with Arete and her brothers, what it means to be mortal and have to carry out the judgment of those who believe they are serving justice.
Both Pythea and his daughter learn what death means in this book. Pythea sets up one of the perspectives on it, saying early in the book that marriage is “a decades-long conversation.” Later Arete, upon the death of one of her teachers, says “I knew what death meant now. It was conversation cut off.”
At the end, Zeus comes in and gets all the best lines, including this one:
“And there is no such thing as omnipotence, and omniscience is extremely overrated. As for omnibenevolence, I’m sure you realize by now that we’re doing our best. And time is a Mystery, by which I mean you are welcome to make up your own theories and I’ll be grateful if any of them comes close to being a useful analogy.”
There will be a third and final book in this series, Necessity, and I’m hoping it will be as much better than this one as this one was better than the first.
Eleanor came home from college with my copy of The Secret History, by Donna Tartt, which she’d been assigned for a class, and said I should read it because it was a page-turner and she’d finished it in one day. It took me a couple of days, what with kitten and kids and things, and near the end of it I was in a very irritable mood. It’s not a nice story, and they’re not nice people. They made me cross.
I was surprised to find myself so cross because, in addition to Eleanor, Ana and Jenny really like this book. Maybe I read it too long after college—it’s about college kids, and how they over-dramatize everything that happens to them. One of their friends annoys them and what do they decide to do? Do they invent a cruel nickname and talk about him, sometimes even in his presence, until he realizes he’s unwanted and slinks away? This is something I did as a college student, and still feel guilty about.
Okay, but I’m not being quite fair. The Secret History starts before the friend begins to annoy them. It starts with a group of Classics students deciding to run around and drink and take drugs and starve themselves until they call up Dionysus. The ambition reminds me of the way Julia and her cohort decide to summon a god in The Magician King. It’s always a bad idea to dabble in the supernatural just for fun. In this case, though, the danger is not from the god, but from their own frenzy. They kill a man, leaving themselves open for blackmail from the annoying friend, whose nickname is “Bunny.”
Most of the novel is about how bad they feel about killing Bunny, and I had very little sympathy for them so I just kept getting more annoyed. The characters are brilliantly drawn, though, even down to their habits of mind, as classicists:
“If the modern mind is whimsical and discursive, the classical mind is narrow, unhesitating, relentless. It is not a quality of intelligence that one encounters frequently these days. But though I can digress with the best of them, I am nothing in my soul if not obsessive.”
There’s a lot about regional and class differences between college students, since the main character, Richard, is not well off and from California, while he’s going to a small, select college in Vermont. He can always identify other Californians: “her voice was brusque with the staccato Californians sometimes affect when they’re trying too hard to be from New York, but there was a bright hard edge of that Golden State cheeriness, too. A cheerleader of the Damned.”
The richest and most studious of Richard’s group of Classics scholars is Henry, the leader. He says to Richard “You’re not very happy where you come from, are you?” and then “Don’t worry, you hide it very cleverly.” Richard thinks that “he said this without malice, without empathy, without even much in the way of interest. I was not even sure what he meant, but, for the first time, I had a glimmer of something I had not previously understood: why the others were all so fond of him. Grown children (an oxymoron, I realize) veer instinctively to extremes; the young scholar is much more a pedant than his older counterpart.”
The others in the group of scholars are Bunny, who has no money but expects his friends to buy him extravagant things, Francis, who is rich, and Charles and Camilla, who are twins. They all spend autumn weekends at the country home of Francis’ absent relative, where they drink and play croquet and go for long walks. Richard thinks of it as an almost perfect place. At one point they fantasize about living there together:
“The idea of living there, of not having to go back ever again to asphalt and shopping malls and modular furniture; of living there with Charles and Camilla and Henry and Francis and maybe even Bunny; of no one marrying or going home or getting a job in a town a thousand miles away or doing any of the traitorous things friends do after college; of everything remaining exactly as it was, that instant—the idea was so truly heavenly that I’m not sure I thought, even then, it would ever really happen, but I like to believe I did.”
For years after college, Ron and I and some of our friends would talk about designing a house where we could all live together, much like Richard’s fantasy. So far, all we’ve done is share beach houses.
But it turns out that while Richard was dreaming his pretty daydream about sharing a house with his friends, they were searching for ways to call Dionysus without including him. It’s not even clear, from what they say to Richard, whether they would ever have told him about killing a man in their Dionysian frenzy except for needing him to help keep Bunny from telling. Bunny, who was also excluded, only knows because he was waiting at Henry’s house the night they returned wearing bloody chitons, with Camilla unable to speak.
Richard tells some terrible stories about Bunny, like how he could zero in on a person’s insecurities. “Ruthless as a gun dog, he picked up with rapid and unflagging instinct the traces of everything in the world I was most insecure about, all the things I was in most agony to hide. There were certain repetitive, sadistic games he would play with me.” But none of the things Bunny does can justify the premeditated way they go about planning his murder. Henry tells Richard “I went out there today with a tape measure…The highest point is forty-eight feet, which should be ample.”
Part Two of the novel, in which Richard and his friends suffer the consequences of having killed their friend, is the part that irritated me most. They went into their Bacchanal and then into planning Bunny’s murder as if they were entitled to decide who gets to live and who has to die. Their arrogance doesn’t carry them through unscathed, and yet the denouement is less satisfying than if they were tormented by anything other than their own deficient consciences.
An interesting novel, but one I’m glad I have read, rather than one I enjoyed reading.
The book I found beside my bed when I got to spend the night with some friends in Louisiana was one I had already gotten interested in when Jenny wrote about it, Greensleeves by Eloise Jarvis McGraw.
It’s a very old-fashioned book in some ways, and yet not completely dated. It’s about the summer after high school for a well-traveled girl named Shannon who wants to get away from parental influence (she has two sets of parents living in Europe) and decide what to do with her life. Her father is pressing her to go to college, but she’s not sure if she wants to. She happens on a mystery and a waitressing job and decides to spend the summer in disguise, living and working as “Georgetta,” who wears her hair up in an elaborate bouffant, has bows on her shoes, and speaks with an American accent.
One of the college students who eats regularly at the diner where she works, George Sherrill (known as “Sherry”), sees partly through her disguise and begins calling her “Greensleeves” because she is hiding her true identity:
“there’s been a rumour around since the sixteenth century that Henry the Eighth wrote that song and that the girl in it was Anne Bolyn. He just called her My Lady Greensleeves to hide her identity.”
From this nickname, you see that he is paying more attention to her than most of the people she meets, and that one day she will probably cast him off discourteously, which she eventually does. He is pressing her to marry him and promises to change his plans and his dreams for her, but she doesn’t want that kind of compromise. In that way, she feels very modern.
Shannon/Georgetta’s struggle throughout the summer is to find out what her “true” identity might be. In Europe, she feels like an American, but in Oregon, where she went to high school, she felt like a European. After spending most of the summer as Georgetta, trying to become Shannon again makes her feel that “this was a mask I hadn’t known I was wearing. It raised the question of how many more masks there might be underneath.” One of the things Sherry helps her see is that American college students don’t feel as much need to pigeonhole the people they meet as high school students sometimes do, and that she doesn’t have to fit herself neatly into any one category.
By the end of the summer, when she is quitting her waitress job, she is asking her boss “Is everybody in some trap or other?” and he is replying “I think it likely. We move from one cage to the next one, don’t we?” Shannon can’t see that her own trap is the way she runs away when things get difficult.
At the end of the novel, though, having established that Sherry is not holding himself back in order to pursue her, she tells him where to find her and seems likely to stay put until he gets there, a new move in the repertoire of things she could do carelessly as Greensleeves that she wants to be able to do more deliberately in her life as Shannon.
Originally published in 1968, this is one of the first Young Adult books. One of the things it does best is show the difference between what infatuation feels like and what love feels like, including the way love can incorporate some of those wonderful infatuated feelings once a person lets herself go.
Another of the things this book does well is show the difference between going to college because you want to learn new things and going just because it’s expected of you. What do you expect of yourself? Shannon’s tale of her eighteenth summer shows that question to be the one a person has to answer before she can go any farther.
The new kitten, Pippin, is eleven weeks old now, and he’s a delightful little creature in almost every way but one, and that is that he still likes to bite me when he’s playing. I went the internet and then to the public library to see what to do about this, but none of the conventional advice has solved the problem yet—mostly it’s to substitute a toy for my arm or leg. Believe me, I try doing that. And it’s not like I’m not playing with him enough—we have regular playtime when he’s awake. So tomorrow he gets a second round of vaccines, and I’ll ask the vet.
I re-read parts of Psycho Kitty: Understanding your cat’s “crazy” behavior by Pam Johnson-Bennett and read through Cat Sense: How the New Feline Science Can Make You a Better Friend to Your Pet by John Bradshaw. There wasn’t much I didn’t already know, although it was useful to be reminded of some of the dangers of introducing a new cat to the household. Tristan and Sabrina are still getting used to the kitten, but tolerating him much better.
Because I was at the library and it was summer, I also checked out House Witch, by Katie Schickel. It was a fun summer read—some might call it a beach read, if they lived in a place where it ever stopped raining.
House Witch is about a wife and mother, Allison, who doesn’t know she’s a witch until her mother, who sent her to foster care when she was 7 years old—dies. Gradually it turns out that her mother was protecting her from her aunt, who is a bad witch. And, surprise! The bad witch has been running her town, using the lure of plum jobs and designer shoes to get the townspeople to do her bidding.
After adventures that help Allison (whose real name is Allesone) remember her mother and the spells she taught, we learn that Mother Goose rhymes are actually “spells. Created by witches. Passed down through the years.”
Allesone defeats Freya by making her remember that her childish arrogance led her to kill her own father, in the mistaken assumption that she could resurrect him. The happy ending is that Allesone/Allison’s children will now learn magic, and she won’t have secrets from them or her husband ever again.
House Witch was a fine book to read inside, with rain drumming on the roof and even Pippin occasionally assuming a weary posture about the dreadful weather.