Cecilia and Robbie froze in the attitude of their struggle. Their eyes met, and what they saw in the bilious mélange of green and orange was not shock, or guilt, but a form of challenge, or even triumph. She had the presence of mind to set the ruined vase back down on the step before letting herself confront the significance of the accident. It was irresistible, she knew, even delicious, for the graver it was, the worse it would be for Robbie. Her dead uncle, her father’s dear brother, the wasteful war, the treacherous crossing of the river, the preciousness beyond money, the heroism and good ness, all the years backed up behind the history of the vase reaching back to the genius of Hodoldt, and beyond him to the mastery of the arcanists who had re-invented porcelain.