Marco has his little projects.

Some months ago, we received a long box in the post. I helped him carry it into the kitchen, and we laid it out on the table after some hasty shuffling of the pastry implements. The return address was from a hamlet on the coast, and I did not recognize the name of the sender. Marco stood in the kitchen for some time, considering the box, letting a soft grin spread across his face. We made short work of the ties with the utility knife, and spread open the cardboard and papers to see what he had been sent.

In the box were two planks. They had been scrubbed clean by the sea, and turned white by the sun. They smelled gently of salt. They were very smooth. Marco ran his fingers along their surface, and tapped the table gently with the utility knife.

"We," he said, "must go shopping."

We took the red one into the village, going slower than usual, although Marco still enjoyed himself. In town, he pushed a crumpled mass of bills into my shaking hand and sent me to the Apothecary to purchase little clay crucibles. For reasons I do not know, they came in cases of twenty-seven. They came packed in little nests of bright paper, held set by cleverly notched pieces of card. I bought two cases, and carried them carefully back to the car.

Marco had bought a mirror. It was full length, and leaned against the passenger door, showing us the sky. Marco had also bought wax, white wax, in little straw colored boxes that sported cows. The wax and the crucibles fit easily in the footwell. We pondered the length of the mirror and the lowness of the car.

"This," he said, "will never fit."

We dropped it on the pavement. It broke nicely.

With gentle care, Marco picked up each fist-sized piece and put them in a canvas bag he keeps behind the seat. He borrowed a broom and pan from the smith's, and I carried the frame to the post office and leaned it against the wall, adding it to the collection of things people had thought others might use. When I came back the pavement was clean again, and Marco was ready to go back.

Marco moved the planks to the shop. On one went the crucibles in no useful pattern, set down with weatherproof glue. To the other, he affixed the pieces of mirror, making haphazard mosaic and letting the leading of the wood show through between. He has been teaching me, a little, and I made a crude stand for him out of beech. It was notched to hold the first plank flat, steady and level, and the other plank behind and up, like a picture on the wall. I was proud that it was level. Marco was pleased.

Marco has called us to dinner.

Juliet and I are sitting at the small table in the back of the garden. It is a clear night, and cold, but we are dressed warmly and wrapped in blankets besides, and we both have large mugs of chocolate. There are slim logs burning merrily in the terra cotta oven-pot. Jacobo made mention that he would join us, but was not ready yet (Mr. Shen is at his own devices). Marco is in the kitchen, tending to things and grating cheese. It is quiet here, and I touch Juliet's hand across the table.

Behind us are the planks. The crucibles are clean and pure, and I know that they will change as life outside finds them, but I do not mind. Marco has filled them with wax and wick. Marco has lit them all. The air is very still, and the small flames only tremble a little as it drifts carefully by. The pieces of mirror behind catch the light and send it out around us, and the illumination is gentle, and warms us well.

Marco is bringing the pumpkin ravioli, and a bottle of wine.

It is time to eat.