The Signature of All Things

you see,” Retta prattled on, “and I fear I shall be cold. I could wear a shawl, suggests my little maid, but then nobody would be able to enjoy the necklace Mother said I could wear. Also, I wish for a spray of roses, though they are out of season and some say it is inelegant to carry a spray of flowers, in any case.”
    Alma turned around to face her friend once more. “Retta,” she said, this time in a more serious tone. “You aren’t truly getting married, are you?”
    “I do hope so!” Retta laughed. “I have been told that the only way one should get married is truly!”
    “And whom do you intend to marry?”
    “Mr. George Hawkes,” said Retta. “That funny, serious man. It makes me so glad, Alma, that my husband-to-be is somebody you adore so much, which means that we can all be friends. He does admire you so, and you admire him, which must mean he is a good man. It is your affection for George, really, that makes me trust him. He asked for my hand shortly after your mother’s death, but I didn’t want to speak of it sooner, as you were suffering so much, you poor dear. I had no idea he was even fond of me, but Mother tells me that everyone is fond of me, bless their hearts, because they cannot help themselves.”
    Alma sat down on the floor. She had no other choice but to sit down.
    Retta ran over to her friend, and sat down beside her. “Look at you! You are overcome on my behalf! You care about me so!” Retta put her arm around Alma’s waist, just as she had done on the day they met, and embraced her closely. “I must confess that I am still a bit overcome myself. What would such a clever man want with such a silly bit of lint like me? My father was most surprised! He said, ‘Loretta Marie Snow, I always figured you to be the sort of girl who would marry a handsome, stupid fellow who wore tall boots and hunted foxes for pleasure!’ But look at me—instead I shall marry a scholar. Imagine if it eventually makes me clever, Alma, to be married to a man with such a premium mind. Though I must say that George is not nearly as patient as you are, about answering my questions. He says that the subject of botanical publishing is far too complex to explain, and it is true that I still cannot tell the difference between a lithograph andan engraving. Is that what it’s called—a lithograph? So I may end up as stupid as ever! Nonetheless, we shall live right across the river, which will be most fun! Father has promised to build us a charming new house, right next to George’s print shop. You must come see me every day! And we shall all three of us go to see plays at Old Drury together!”
    Alma, still sitting on the floor, had no capacity for speech. She was only grateful that Retta’s head was tucked against her chest as she chattered away, so the girl could not see her face.
    George Hawkes was to marry Retta Snow?
    But George was supposed to be Alma’s husband. She had seen it in her mind so vividly for nearly five years now. She had conjured fantasies of him—his body!—when she was in the binding closet. But she had cherished more chaste thoughts of him, as well. She had imagined them working together, in close study. She always pictured herself leaving White Acre, when it came time to marry George. Together, they would live in a small room over his print shop, with its warm smells of ink and paper. She had envisaged them traveling to Boston together, or perhaps even beyond—as far away as the Alps, climbing over boulders to hunt for pasqueflowers and rock-jasmine. He would say to her, “What do you make of this specimen?” and she would say, “It is fine and rare.”
    He had always been so kind to her. He had once pressed her hand between his hands. They had looked through the same microscope eyepiece so many times —one after the other, then back again—trading on and off with the marvel of it.
    What could George Hawkes possibly see in Retta Snow? By Alma’s recollection, George had barely ever been able to look at Retta Snow without baffled embarrassment. Alma remembered how George had always glanced over to her in confusion whenever Retta spoke, as though seeking help, relief, or interpretation. If anything, these little glances between George and Alma about Retta had been one of their sweetest intimacies—or at least Alma had dreamed that they were.
    But apparently Alma had dreamed many things.
    Some part of her still hoped this was just one of Retta’s strange games, or