Paraphernalia retains a few things in her name, on her wedding day: a Bible and rosary, grooming items and a key to her parents’ home. Everything else becomes the common property of the Wives of Newton.

Even the dress is theirs, one of three they let out or take in as needed. The bodice is a little loose. She tries not to fidget as the priest of Apollo drones Greekly on into the ceremony, and then Madam Conduitt is smiling, holding her husband’s golden hand on a platter.

“I do,” says Paraphernalia, and lets her ring clink with all the others.