Finial

The low fence along the upper garden ended at two gateposts, and each post along the run was capped with a finial turned on a lathe, a round wooden knob worn smooth by weather. The girl walked the fence from the gate to the corner and set her hand on each cap in turn. Nyra sat on the stone by the gate with the book open on her knee, and she waited for the count.

“Nineteen,” the girl called from the corner. “Nineteen finials, and the last one split a little at the top.” “Nineteen,” Nyra answered, and she wrote the number down, and beside it she noted the split.

The girl came back along the fence with her palm riding over each round cap. “You can keep that there are nineteen,” she said, “but not how the evening light sits on them, nor how each one is a little different where the lathe left its mark.” A book gathers what can be set down in a line and counted, and leaves the rest to the one who was there.

“No,” Nyra said. “I can keep the nineteen, and that the last is split. I cannot keep the light on them, nor how they crown the posts against the sky.” “Then you have the smaller part,” the girl said. “I have the part that keeps,” Nyra answered, and she closed the book over the number.

The book keeps the finials, and you keep the crowning of it.