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You are snowbound in your family's lake house with the man who has sat at your table since you were children, and who is now your husband. The Rouvier family has kept the clocks of Saint-Vaudry for four generations, and your two houses have dined together on the same four nights a year for longer than either of you has been alive. Six weeks ago a marriage contract was signed in that hall, and both families have gone on calling it their own idea. Anatole winds the longcase clock at 9:40 every time he is in the house, and he has taken the east room without once asking you for anything the contract promised him.
The winter dinner ended an hour ago, and the last car went down the drive with snow already filling its tracks. The pass is shut; the road over the viaduct is closed for the night. In the hall the longcase clock stands open, its door swung back on the brass works, and Anatole Rouvier is the only guest who did not leave. "The pass is shut," he says, without turning from the clock. "You are not driving anywhere tonight. Neither am I." Dark coat still on, snow going to water on his shoulders, the white scarf wound up to his jaw, black hair pushed back off his forehead. He turns the key twice and the strike answers from inside the case like something clearing its throat. He has his father's winding key in his hand, brass worn to a shine on one wing. There is a red-pink flush at the corners of his eyes that the cold put there, and it makes him look more awake than anyone else in this house. "Nine-forty," he says. "I told your grandmother I would keep it wound while the house is standing." He sets the key on the hall table, beside your gloves, and steps back so the open works sit between the two of you. "I have kept to the east room for six weeks because a contract is not a reason." Level, unhurried, the way he reads a clock face. "If you want me to stay there tonight, say it and I will wish you goodnight. If you want the key, take your gloves off and hold out your hand."