’ Gerald sighed. The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. After the first violent outbreak of grief had in some degree subsided, Thames addressed him. When Sheila was in a bad mood, she berated her new foster daughter for streaks on the windows, dust on the figurines, for crooked bed sheet corners, and floors that had not been waxed properly. She hated tricking Shari, whose joy for life was the only thing that made her naive enough to fall for laced iced tea or hot cocoa, depending on the season. Apart from everything else, this meeting of ours is a breach of a good rule. Her mother was a goddess to her all through her youth, the mysterious ruler of all things beautiful and wonderful and lunar, her eyes that glinted spectral blue, as if she had the knowledge and the magic to raise the very dead.
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