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almost as if he’d forgotten he was there. “We’ll see.” He suddenly seemed to have lost interest. “I’m sure you must be off now. Have a farm to run, don’t you?”
    “Yes, sir.” He flushed.
    Still, he found it hard to leave the sight of the glorious monster—to get back in his cart, do his chores, go to school. The idea seemed impossible as he stood there, then slowly edged out of the barn backward, his eyes riveted to the whiteness of the wings, the cruel, graceful propellers.
    He didn’t tell any of the boys at school about the machine, guarding his secret jealously. But he wanted to talk about it to someone, so after his evening chores, he sat in the warm kitchen, the island dark and hushed outside, and said to his mother: “The mainlander has a flying machine.”
    “Does he, now.” His mother didn’t turn away from the stove.
    “In his barn. He’s going to fly it in spring.”
     “It’s spring now,” his mother said.
    “Later, when it’s warmer,” Owen said.
    “When it’s warmer,” his mother said, “it will be summer.”
    “Well.”
    “That’s not the same thing.” She looked at him. “People don’t always mean what they say. In fact, it’s often not what they mean at all.”
    So next Owen talked to Lettuce about it.
    “It’s like a giant bird skeleton,” he told her, running his hand down her back. “And in the center is metal.” His hand reached her thurl. “But really, it’s mostly wood and cloth.” He traveled down her rear flank. “But it’s not like any cloth you’ve ever seen. It’s gummy.” His hand reached her teat. “I wish you could see it. But then, maybe you wouldn’t like it. Maybe you’d be afraid.” Her milk came out, pale yellow, thick, like honey, into the pail.
    That night he would dream of Flora, of flying in the air, of rising. He would dream of sticky fabric and men with large rectangular mustaches the color of spruce. Owen would dream of all the things he didn’t know, all the things he might.

1913–1914
    T hey had been in London since the beginning of June, Sara, her two sisters, and her mother. The “Three Wiborg Girls,” as the sisters were tiresomely known in the columns. Sara was “the chic one,” Hoytie “dark and refined,” while the youngest sister, Olga, was “the delicate beauty.” These words felt like intricately made corsets, squeezing them into arranged shapes, pinching at the sides where they met resistance.
    Sara pressed her finger to her eye, seeking out the soft spot on the lid that had been leaking infection on and off since their arrival in Europe in March. A maid, fitting the gown Sara planned to wear that evening, stuck a pin into the light green silk, and it pricked her right beneath her armpit. Sara felt the pain like a tiny streak of lightning. She remained still. A stray drop of rain hit the pane of the large window overlooking Hyde Park.
    Tonight would be her mother’s final victory in the long march through the European season. The Vegetable Ball at the Ritz. The cream of society had lobbied Adeline Wiborg for invitations to the event, first politely, then a little less politely. Sara’s mother received bribes daily in the form of invitations to dîners or offers of a place in someone’s box at the opera, each one causing Adeline to smile and hum to herself.
    Sara looked at the wreath of carrots, tomato vines, and sprigs of mint lying on the chaise longue next to her. It was absurd, decorative, useless. Like me. She felt very tired.
    She consoled herself with the thought that this evening, at least, she wouldn’t be expected to participate in any tableaux vivants or sing with her sisters—both staples in her mother’s arsenal. They had been doing these performances for years at their houses in Ohio, New York, and East Hampton and at drawing rooms all over the East Coast and Europe. Last night, they had done their rendition of the Rhine Maidens’ lament from Das Rheingold for guests of the Duchess