In the Land of the Long White Cloud

these feelings. She wanted to see the good in Paul, wanted to love him, but when she looked at him, she did not feel any more than she felt for Tonga, for example: a nice boy, clever, and no doubt suited to what would later be expected of him. But it was not the profound, heart-wrenching love she felt for Fleurette.
    She hoped that Paul did not notice this absence of love, and she always strove to be especially kind and patient with him. Even now, she was willing to forgive him for wanting to walk past her without a greeting.
    “Did something happen, Paul?” she asked, concerned. “Did something upset you at school?” Gwyneira knew that Helen did not always have an easy time with Paul and was aware of his ongoing rivalry with Ruben and Tonga.
    “No, nothing. I need to talk to Grandfather, Mother. Where is he?” Paul did not bother with pleasantries.
    Gwyneira looked at the grandfather clock that dominated one wall of her study. It was another hour until dinner. So Gerald might already have started on his aperitif.
    “Where he always is at this time,” she replied. “In the salon. And you know perfectly well that it’s best not to bother him at this hour. Especially not when someone hasn’t washed or combed his hair, young man. If you want my advice, go change in your room before you go see him.”
    It was true that Gerald had not taken changing before dinner very seriously himself for a long time, and even Gwyneira only tended to change her clothes when she was coming from the stables. The tea dress that she had worn that day would be perfectly acceptable for dinner. But Gerald could be strict with the children—or rather, he was usually looking for a reason to pick a fight with someone around that time of day. The hour before the common meal was the most dangerous. By the time dinner was served, Gerald’s alcohol level was usually so high that violent eruptions were no longer possible.
    Paul briefly considered his options. If he went straight to Gerald with the news, his grandfather would indeed explode—but in the absence of the “victim,” the effect would be limited. It would bebetter to tell on Fleur when she was present; then there was a better chance that he, Paul, would get to hear every detail of the ensuing confrontation. Besides, his mother was right: if Gerald was in a really bad mood, he might not even give Paul a chance to announce his news before unleashing all his fury on Paul.
    So the boy decided to go to his room first. He would appear at dinner properly dressed, while Fleur would inevitably show up late—and still in her riding clothes. He would let her stammer her excuses, and then, when she was done, he would drop his bombshell. Paul went upstairs feeling smug. He lived in his father’s old room, which was now crammed full with toys and fishing tackle rather than art supplies and books. The boy changed into his dinner clothes meticulously. He was eager with anticipation.

    Fleurette had not promised more than she could deliver. Her dog, Gracie, had gathered together the missing sheep with lightning speed as soon as Ruben and the girl had found them. Even finding them had not proved difficult. The young rams were bound for the highlands and the pastures where the ewes were. Still, flanked by Gracie and Minette, they were content to turn back toward the farm. Gracie did not tolerate any frolicking, and quickly herded any sheep trying to break ranks back into the flock. The group was small and easy to keep track of, so Fleurette managed to shut the paddock gate behind them long before dark—and more importantly, long before Howard O’Keefe returned from the shed, where he was seeing to his last cattle. The animals were finally to be sold after Howard had endlessly clung to cattle farming as a potential second source of income against George Greenwood’s advice. O’Keefe Station did not boast any land suitable for cattle; only sheep and goats could thrive here.
    Fleurette looked at the position of the sun. It wasn’t late yet, but if she helped Ruben fix the fence as she had promised, she wouldn’t make it home for dinner. Even that wouldn’t be so bad—her grandfather usually retired to his room with a last whiskey after dinner,and her mother and Kiri would no doubt save her something to eat. Still, Fleur hated to make more work for the help than was necessary. Besides, Fleur did not relish the idea of possibly running into Howard and then—horror of horrors!—bursting