H
er mother’s worried eyes. Her father’s frown. Of course they had worried. She would herself one day understand what it was like to fret over the disappearance of a child. Her mother’s chiding words were of course compulsory, but distant and ineffectual. She quickly sensed her child’s serenity and yielded the need to disapprove. Questions could wait until morning. Mary was home and safe. That is all that mattered.
Just before slumber claimed the child, as her eyes watched the crescent moon through her window rise toward its zenith, a thought came. The fulfillment of all time had begun, in her. Her secret was secure for the moment.
