The party was magnificent, which was the problem. Reginald Vance stood at the edge of the Crossley garden and watched the lights spill across the lawn like spilled champagne, and every laugh that drifted over the parapet felt like a needle in his ribs. He had not been invited. He never was invited anymore, not since the war, not since his father died and left him an estate that was more land than money and more memory than both.

It was 1925, and the world had moved on to things that glittered. Pendelton's garden glittered. His sunflowers were six feet tall, his roses were the color of blood, his lavender spilled over every available surface in purple waves that caught the evening light and turned it into something almost holy. And the bees—always the bees—thick as prayers around the flowering beds, moving from bloom to bloom with the satisfied industry of creatures who know they are exactly where they are supposed to be.

Reginald had not slept in three days. He lay in bed at night and listened to the party below, and the party sounded like laughter, which was worse than silence. Silence he could bear. Laughter from someone else's garden was a different matter entirely.

Henry returned from Yale in June, carrying a satchel full of books and the easy confidence of a young man who had never been told no. He was twenty-one, tall and slight, with Reginald's dark hair and his mother's eyes—though Reginald would have denied that resemblance if anyone had mentioned it. Henry moved through the empty rooms of Ashford like a man who expected the house to fill up around him, like he believed the walls remembered how to hold people.

"The Crossleys are having a party," Henry said at dinner, which was dinner most nights—something simple, something that required minimal conversation.

"I know."

"They're growing sunflowers this year. Six feet tall."

"I know."

Henry looked at him across the table. He had his mother's way of looking at people, the way that made you feel seen and judged simultaneously. "You should come to the party."

"I don't do parties."

"You used to."

Reginald set down his fork. The silver clinked against the porcelain, a small sound that seemed enormous in the quiet room. "I used to do many things."

"Now you don't."

"Now I don't."

The silence between them was not hostile. It was worse than hostile—it was resigned. They had reached the point where there was nothing left to argue about, only things to accept.

Reginald's plan was not elaborate. It was, in fact, quite simple: he would tell the guests at Pendelton's party that the garden used pesticides, that the flowers were sprayed with something harmful, that anyone who ate anything from the garden—or breathed the air around it—would suffer allergic reactions. It was a small lie, a gentle lie, the kind of lie that protected people from harm. Or so he told himself. The truth was simpler and uglier: if the guests were afraid of Pendelton's garden, they would stop coming. If they stopped coming, Pendelton's status would diminish. If Pendelton's status diminished, Reginald would no longer feel the need to stand at the edge of the garden and watch the lights spill across the lawn like spilled champagne.

He began to prepare in July. He wrote the words on a slip of paper and folded it and put it in his pocket. The words were simple: The garden is sprayed. Do not enter. Do not touch. Do not breathe. He carried the paper everywhere—in his vest, in his coat, in his pocket—and sometimes, in the deep hours before dawn, he took it out and read it and felt a strange satisfaction, like a man holding a weapon he had not yet used.

The invitation arrived on a Tuesday. It was not for Reginald. It was for Henry, who had been invited "to meet some interesting people," Diana Crossley had written in her neat, unhurried hand. Diana was Arthur Pendelton's sister, twenty-four, a woman who moved through society the way bees move through flowers—with purpose and grace and an ability to make everything look effortless.

Reginald read the letter three times. Then he folded it and put it in his pocket, next to the slip of paper that said the garden was sprayed.

Henry was excited. Reginald could see it in his face—the wide eyes, the restless hands, the way he stood a little straighter than usual, as though his spine had found a new column of strength. He was going to the party. He was going to meet interesting people. He was going to do things that Reginald had not done in twenty years.

"Have a good time," Reginald said, which was not what he wanted to say. What he wanted to say was: Don't go. Don't meet anyone. Don't laugh at anyone else's jokes. Don't come home with someone else's light in your eyes.

But he said: Have a good time.

Henry went to the party. Reginald stood at the window and watched the lights from across the lawn, and the lights looked beautiful, which was the problem. They always looked beautiful. That was the whole point. They were beautiful and Reginald was not part of them, and the not-being-part-of-it was what made them beautiful, or the beauty was what made the not-being-part-of-it unbearable. He could not tell which.

He took the slip of paper from his pocket and read it: The garden is sprayed. Do not enter. Do not touch. Do not breathe. He folded it and put it back and went to bed and did not sleep.

At dawn, he went to the garden. He walked through the rows of sunflowers and roses and lavender, his hands in his pockets, his face turned toward the ground. The bees were already active, thick as smoke around the flowering beds, and Reginald felt their buzzing in his teeth, in his bones, in the space behind his eyes where the sleep should have been.

He reached the edge of the garden where the flowers gave way to grass, and he stopped. He stood there for a long time, looking at the slip of paper in his hand, and then he did something he had not intended to do. He took the paper from his pocket and read it one more time.

The garden is sprayed. Do not enter. Do not touch. Do not breathe.

He folded it and put it back in his pocket. Then he turned and walked away, toward the house, toward the empty rooms, toward the silence that was worse than laughter because it reminded him of what he used to be.

He did not tell anyone about the paper. He did not need to. The words were already inside him, and they would stay there, folded and refolded, until they wore thin and fell apart.

Henry returned from the party at midnight. He was laughing, which Reginald had not heard him do in years. It was a good laugh, bright and unforced, the kind of laugh that comes from being exactly where you are supposed to be. He was carrying a glass of champagne in one hand and a sprig of lavender in the other, and his face was lit from within, the way faces are lit when they have just heard something beautiful.

"How was it?" Reginald asked, which was not what he wanted to ask. What he wanted to ask was: Did you meet anyone interesting? Did anyone laugh at your jokes? Did you feel, for even one moment, that you belonged somewhere?

Henry looked at him across the doorway. The lavender sprig was still in his hand, and he held it up like a trophy. "Dad, you should have come. Diana's garden—"

"I know about the garden."

"—it's magnificent. The sunflowers are six feet tall, and the bees—"

"I know about the bees."

Henry smiled. It was not a cruel smile. It was worse than cruel—it was gentle. "You should come to the next one."

Reginald did not answer. He turned and walked into the house and closed the door and sat in the dark and listened to the silence, which was worse than laughter because it reminded him of what he used to be.

In the morning, he went to the garden again. The sunflowers were taller than he remembered, or perhaps he was shorter, which was more likely. The bees were everywhere, thick as smoke, and their buzzing was loud enough to hear inside the house, loud enough to hear in the silence between one breath and the next.

He stood at the edge of the garden and looked at the slip of paper in his pocket and did not take it out. He did not need to. The words were already inside him, and they would stay there, folded and refolded, until they wore thin and fell apart.

The sunflowers grew taller. The party was magnificent. Henry came and went, came and went, his face lit from within each time he returned, his hands full of lavender and champagne and the easy confidence of a young man who had never been told no.

Reginald stood at the window and watched the lights spill across the lawn like spilled champagne, and the lights looked beautiful, which was the problem. They always looked beautiful.

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