The two sat on the Gerenford town green, staring around at the white, boxy Victorian houses that lined the streets. Behind them, on the green, stood the monument to the town’s founder. Gregory stared into the boughs of an oak tree, picking small fuzzy things off his dark blue sweater absentmindedly. Brian lay with his head resting on his suitcase, staring at the slowly darkening sky. The first stars were coming out.

Brian said, “That’s…um…that’s called flocculating.”

“What?!?” said Gregory.

“Taking little fuzzy things off sweaters. It’s called flocculating. ”

“Oh!” Gregory nodded.

They sat silently for a while.

It was chilly in Vermont at that time of year. A small boy with a big head went by on a trike. It took a while. They watched.

Gregory rose swiftly to his feet, looked around restlessly, then asked Brian, “Wouldn’t it have been great to be the founder of this town? Just imagine this place when there weren’t any houses or streets here, just the tall pines and some big rocks…and those.” The last thing he indicated was the mountains, rising blue and distant behind the houses. “Just imagine being able to walk forever in the woods, and not ever coming to the back of a Halt’N’Buy.”

A far-off clatter came to their ears. It grew steadily louder. Brian sat up and glanced quickly in the direction of the sound. “What’s that?”

“I bet my adopted uncle. He, uh…”

At that point, an elegant horse and buggy rumbled onto the main road of Gerenford. The carriage clattered to a halt in front of the two. The driver wore a long black cape. He grinned at the boys. He tapped with his whip on the door of the carriage. The door swung open, and Uncle Max stepped out.

He was perhaps sixty or sixty-five years old. He wore striped trousers, dark spats, and a coat with tails. On his head was perched a finely rounded bowler hat. He clutched a cane. He wore a vest, a stiff collar, and a tie fastened with a gold pin. He had a beak-like nose and a walrus mustache, and his eyes were topped with shaggy white eyebrows. The eyes were diamond-hard and biting.

His manner was gruff. “Salutations,” he said without a smile. “Glad you both could come.” The man shook both their hands awkwardly. “Been a long time,” he said.

Gregory, trying to charm, said, “Yes, sir. I think it’s been about five years.”

“Indeed, my boy. Five years. Prudence told me you’ve grown into the sort of boy who doesn’t make a racket.” The beak-nosed man turned to the driver. “Yockly, put the luggage on the back.”

Yockly, the driver, clambered down from his post. He clucked and crooned to the pawing brown steed, then scuttled over to the luggage. As Yockly fastened the two suitcases to the back of the carriage, Uncle Max said to the boys, “Won’t you step into the carriage?”

Gregory muttered, “ ‘Said the spider to the fly.’”

They climbed in. It creaked on its springs. Uncle Max heaved himself in next to them. Gregory shoved his duffel bag to one side with his feet.

“I am just going to take the liberty of locking the doors,” said Uncle Max. “It’s the kind of world where sometimes if people see a carriage, they’ll attempt to clamber into it.”

He locked the doors and kept the keys in his hand, rattling them.

The carriage started moving.

“I envy people who can feel weather in their bones,” said Uncle Max, and pulled out a knife.

Brian blinked and put his hand on the door latch.

Uncle Max raised the knife. The blade rested on the window frame. The boys saw the wood there was scored with ten or so grooves.

“Don’t have the opportunity to entertain much,” said Uncle Max. “We like to mark the carriage for each guest who comes.” With the knife, he put two notches in the door. He said, “One for each of you. A rustic touch to remember you by.”

Brian and Gregory settled back into their seats and exchanged a glance.

Soon, the party jolted past the outskirts of town. Night fell swiftly. During the ride to the house, Uncle Max was silent, and the other two followed suit. In the twilight, they caught sight of tiny roads winding through forests of pine, oak, maple, and spruce. The leaves that Mrs. Thatz had envisioned had lost their summer green. In the falling darkness they looked blue.

After half an hour or so of silence, the buggy crunched over the gravel of the driveway. Finally, it came to a halt in front of the dimly seen house. A porch, framed by thin, embellished supports, was lit by a gaslight. Otherwise, only the outline of the mansion could be seen against the navy evening sky—a complex stack of attic dormers, gables, bay windows, and towers topped with conical roofs, the tallest crowned by a jagged weathercock. The coachman, Yockly, unlocked the door to the carriage and pulled it open. Uncle Max, then Gregory, and finally Brian climbed out.

“Thus. We are here,” commented Uncle Max. After a pause to look around at the darkness, he marched toward the porch. The door there opened, and the two boys caught their first sight of the butler. There were no surprises there. The dark, formal clothes. The chin, tipped up.

“Welcome home, sir. The children are here, I trust?”

“Yes, Burk. Boys,” Uncle Max gestured, and the two walked over to the door. “Burk, this is my nephew, Gregory, and his traveling companion…?”

“Brian Thatz, sir,” Brian interjected quickly.

The butler looked unimpressed. He nodded. “Thatz?” he said. “As you wish.”

“Get their luggage and put it into their rooms,” the uncle ordered, striding past the butler into the foyer. As he walked in, he gruffly explained to the two friends, “I’d like you to wear knickerbockers and ties, of course. May seem rather strange, but I can’t see the point of”—he gestured to Gregory’s jeans—“I can’t see the point of garments such as these. They’re just unpleasant to look at. You appear to be some kind of tatterdemalion. There are appropriate clothes up in your rooms, to be worn in the future.”

“What are knickerbockers?” Gregory asked.

“I like some curiosity in a boy,” said Uncle Max, and went off down a hallway.

The foyer was large. A huge, mushroom-like seat sprouted around an octagonal pillar. A hall table stood against the far wall, supporting a picture of Uncle Max, quite obviously a few years younger, standing atop a mountain in plus fours. Everything, including the Oriental rug on the floor and the well-oiled banister on the stairs, had been perfectly restored to the state of how it might have been a little more than a hundred years before. Through an open door, Brian caught sight of a dining room where stiff, ladder-back chairs sat around a perfectly ordered table. Silver teapots and tureens glittered on the lace tablecloth. Uncle Max called out, “Prudence! Your cousin and his traveling companion are here!”

Cousin Prudence rushed in, a stiff, billowing blue dress whisking around her. A lace collar was wrapped tightly about her slender, white neck. She was young, maybe twenty-two or twenty-three. Her hair was pinned elaborately to her head.

“Hello, Gregory!” she said, giving her cousin a quick hug.

Gregory indicated his friend. “Prudence, this is Brian.”

Prudence shook Brian’s hand, and both said that it was nice to meet the other.

“Well,” said Cousin Prudence, “I think dinner’s waiting in the dining room. Why don’t we all go in there and take a seat?”

Gregory nodded. “Good idea,” he said.

“After you change,” said Prudence.

“Do we really have to change?” asked Gregory. “I mean…really?”

“I wrote some instructions on how to work the collars.”

Uncle Max stepped into the foyer again and indicated the dining room with his hand. “The collars can wait,” he said. “We’ll eat.”

After the others had filed into the dining room, Uncle Max nodded to the butler, who still stood by the door.

Burk said, “I’ll fetch their things.”

Uncle Max frowned. “Yes. Get their things.”

“From the carriage.”

“During dinner, take the bags to the furnace and burn them. They won’t need them.”

The butler walked stiffly outside, shutting the door behind him.

Uncle Max lit a cigar and vented a cloud of smoke slowly before joining the others.