Juliet and I are making fun of Juliet's name. It is almost awful to do it, for it is a beautiful name and speaks of this beautiful place, but Juliet is insistent. She is also a guest of Marco this summer. Juliet is pacing up and back on the paving stones outside in mock agitation, for the house lacks a balcony. I applaud politely. She stops, and becomes serious.

"Come with me," she says. She takes my hand. "I want to show you something." It has been her habit to do this, pulling me to this corner of the grounds or that part of the estate, down to the stream to see the poles in clear water duck and dive the hungry birds who crash into their quiet wet world, hungry. She pulls me around the house clockwise, but this time veering to the outside of the potting shed, under a quince bush. We brush against lilac as we pass, and the little flowers shake sweetly for us.

Soon we are back in the sun again, in a little yard with a low brick wall, in spots heavy with ivy. I cannot see the house from here. The floor of the yard is crunchy river pebbles the color of old bone. On the gravel is a forest of pedestals carved in all styles, and they hold sundials in the air at waist height, a logged forest topped with thin sticks of brass and copper at angles, all casting shadows on broad faces etched with lines darkened by time outside.

"Look at that," I tell her. "They're on the wall. I've never seen a sundial on the wall before."

Her lips are soft. They seem soft enough to make my lips soft, too.