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house. He landed with a spectacular crash that seemed to come as no surprise to him at all. That night he returned with the now-useless contraption. As Carolina watched from the shore, he climbed back on the roof, set the damaged wings on fire, and launched them over the few paces of land between the house and the lake. The sudden burst of flame as air rushed over the burning frame gave the wings a strange, wobbly lift for one short moment. Then they swooped dangerously low, showering Carolina with red sparks before crashing into the lake with an enormous splash and hiss. Steam rose into the night, tinted orange by the surviving fire. Some of the bones of the contraption still glowed fierce red as they sank through the dark water.
    In mid-December a deep freeze set in, closing the last small patch of open water where the black ducks had swum melancholy circles as the rest of the lake was lost to them. When the cold hadn’t broken after a week, Turri began to harvest ice from the edges of the lake just beyond the reeds, sawing out over a thousand brick-sized blocks to build a castle on the heart of the lake: four modest walls with a pair of turrets facing the small house on shore. The day before he completed it, the weather changed. The temperature climbed so high it felt like spring, and in the forest it rained all morning as ice melted from the grateful branches and dropped down into the thick mud below. The cloudy walls of the castle began to shine as the scuffs of Turri’s saw melted away. All morning, he fought a losing battle with the sun, packing wet snow around the foundation and arranging and rearranging insufficient groups of tarps. But when the thick layer of ice that covered the whole lake began to creak and moan in the early afternoon, Carolina came out of her house and insisted that he come back to shore. Less than an hour later, the entire structure crashed through into the frigid water, resurfacing as a jumble of jagged icebergs. When night fell, the bobbing chunks of ice froze into a spiky wound that marked the smooth surface for the rest of the winter.
    Christmas Day, Carolina made her way to the lake through the new fall of powdery snow on the forest floor, clutching a box of marzipan and oranges. When she arrived at her house, she could see the unsteady light of a fire within already casting blue shadows on the snow outside. Turri was waiting with his overcoat still on, although he’d clearly been there for so long that the bright color that cold always called up in his face had faded away. On the table beside him stood a small elephant in blue enamel, about as tall as Carolina’s thumb, its legs joined to its body at strange angles. A wheel like a captain might use to guide a ship protruded from the creature’s right side.
    Carolina set her box down on the desk and lifted the top to reveal the hand-painted pastries and oranges.
    “Would you like a piece?” she said.
    Turri shook his head. “I just lost a marzipan- eating contest with Antonio,” he told her.
    Carolina selected a bunch of sugar-coated grapes for herself and closed the box.
    “I don’t know why elephants always seem so sad,” she said, looking at the little figure.
    “Wind it up,” Turri said.
    Carolina set the creature on her palm and lifted it to her face so that they could see eye to eye.
    “The wheel,” Turri said. “You turn it.”
    Carolina twisted the wheel. Slowly, the enameled feet began to move. First both right legs took a step, then both the left.
    Turri broke into a proud grin. “Put it on the table,” he said. “Watch it!”
    Carolina set the toy down carefully on the desk. It marched gamely over an entire field of writing paper and came to a stop just before the marzipan box, regarding it with all the wonder and respect with which an explorer might confront a new mountain.
    “I made it for you,” Turri said with barely contained excitement.
    “Thank you,” Carolina said, gazing down at the gift.
    Turri