The grandfather clock in that hall was striking four when she let us in, and she put her hand on his shoulder and said, “He has your grandfather’s eyes, Roland,” which was the first warm thing she had said to me since 1999.

There was a package on the mahogany table in dark green paper.

Silas opened it carefully and folded the paper, which he does because I taught him to save scrap.

Inside was a solid oak case with brass clasps containing a German drafting set — six silver compasses, three ruling pens, a divider, all of it bedded in blue velvet — and it is the single most beautiful object either of us has ever owned.

“It’s for your drawings,” Agnes said, and she put her hand in his hair.