Juliet is sitting across from me, on a wide cushioned bench that she built. It fits her well, and I have seen her feet rest solidly on the decking that holds the benches above the ground. Her arms are resting wide on the bench back, furling her sweater. The sweater is too big for her, but too comfortable not to wear in the cool of the evening, and her slippered feet are tucked beneath her. The bench I am sitting on is a twin of the other, but I am too tall for it, and my feet can only rest awkwardly thrust into the space between us. The line of Juliet's arm ends in a mug of cocoa. My own sits in my lap, warming my fingers. Night has nearly fallen all the way, and the air is cold. I am glad of it.

"The Mayor is coming," Juliet says. "Marco is making a stew."

She built a pergola, too. We planted vines, but they have only begun to climb the corner posts, and the naked slats do little to shield us from the purple sky or the strong stars, fighting through the light from their terrible distance.

Juliet sips her cocoa. "Do you know why he's coming?"

Juliet had asked me to bring a clay chimney down from the house, and I have set it on the granite hearth she built at one end of this place. Slim pieces of split wood burn in it, and embers float from the top of it from time to time, stepping carefully into the night and slipping through the rising air, hesitant. The fire casts low amber light across us in tides.

"I hope nothing has happened." She looks carefully still.

The light spills across her face, and she is lovely.