Ann Veronica stood in the twilight room staring at the door that had slammed upon her aunt, her pocket-handkerchief rolled tightly in her hand. She could read that Martin had a crush on her and was perhaps even going to try and challenge John as he was the bold sort. They thought that she was her own mother. His name is carved upon a beam up stairs. Ownership seemed only a reasonable return for the cares and expenses of a daughter’s upbringing. I know South America and Canada like the lines in my hand. She stared down at them from a high window, peering down at their moonlit faces in the bed heavy with furs, the same bed where she had given birth to Gianfrancesco’s dead son. But at least it gave her more time.
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