The most glorious hour in Manhattan was when twilight fell in sheets across the Great Lawn. Bands of blue turned darker by the moment as the last of the pale light filtered through the boughs of cherry trees and black locusts. In October, the meadows turned gold; the vines were twists of yellow and red. But the park was more and more crime-ridden. The Roses siblings had ridden their bikes on the paths without adult supervision when they were five and six and seven; now children were f*******n to go past the gates after nightfall. There were muggings and assaults; desperate men who had nowhere else to go slept on the green benches and under the yews.
Yet to Amarantia, Central Park continued to be a great and wondrous universe, a science lab that was right down the street from their house.
