The spring wind caught her hair as she drew the lake, and she was laughing, because our mother was offering a running commentary on her technique that was equal parts affection and merciless critique.

I came out onto the terrace carrying a silver tray with three cups of chamomile tea.

“You are slanting the horizon again, Juliet,” our mother said, taking a slow, careful breath between the words.

“Your father had the same failing.

No eye for perspective whatsoever.

I see you have inherited his complete lack of spatial awareness along with his eyes.”

Juliet laughed and set down her charcoal.