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“Give me Oliver.”

Jamie passes me the miniature. Oliver arrives in the playroom carrying the bags of party supplies while I put his doll in the second chair.

He looks over my shoulder. “The hydrangeas are disproportionately large.”

“They’re covering six bodies.”

“That doesn’t change scale.”

“It changed the soil.”

Oliver sets the bags down. He reaches past me and straightens the tiny book across his doll’s lap.

Jamie picks up Simon from the kitchen and puts him in the third chair. He places the little knife beside him on the garden table.

We carry the real party into the backyard.

The hydrangeas have grown since I showed Oliver and Jamie what happens to dolls who fail. Six bushes bloom blue along the fence, heavy enough that some branches need support.

The roses are beautiful this year. Simon’s herb garden fills the empty rectangle beyond them. The basil reaches his knees. Rosemary crowds one corner, mint has escaped the bed despite the barrier he installed, and three pepper plants lean toward the sun. He added tomatoes along the back and threatened Jamie twice for decorating their supports with ribbons.

Nobody’s buried beneath them.

Simon steps into the bed and cuts basil with the kitchen shears. He no longer asks before taking them. I count the blades when he returns everything at night. The number is always correct.

The table sits between the hydrangeas and roses. Jamie covers it with the white cloth and arranges the floral napkins beside four glasses. He puts a flamingo umbrella in each one.

Simon returns with basil in one hand. “I told you those weren’t going in my lemonade.”

Jamie moves the umbrella in Simon’s glass until the flamingo faces him. “Now it’s festive.”

Oliver unfolds his napkin. “Flamingos derive their coloration from their diet. Simon may be responding to the implication that his lemonade contains crustaceans.”

Simon looks at him. “Do you ever get tired of being like this?”

“No.”

I sit at the head of the table.

Jamie takes the chair beside me without waiting to be placed. He’s woven alyssum into his hair, white flowers scattered through black.

Simon sets down the food and takes the chair nearest the herb garden. Oliver brings the poetry collection outside and sits between them.

Simon made small tarts with strawberries and cream. The crusts break cleanly beneath the fork, and Jamie makes a sound after his first bite that pleases him more than he intends to show.

“Slow down,” Simon says. “Nobody’s taking it.”

Jamie looks at me. I take another bite of mine.

Oliver opens his book. He chose the collection himself. The poem is about gardens. He reaches the fourth line before stopping.

Jamie has tucked a white flower between the pages. Oliver removes it and looks at him. Jamie continues eating as though the flower arrived without assistance.

“You’re damaging the binding,” Oliver says. He holds the flower by its stem.

Jamie takes another bite of tart.

Oliver leaves it between the pages and resumes reading.