She was to be handed over with her dowry of three thousand Florins, plus her pet bird, six chickens, her mother’s fine linens, a small book of poetry. She was retuning, fifths spilling from the sliver of light underneath the door like milk. She watched as his headlights flooded the driveway and many minutes after his car was gone. The wheel and the navigating instruments were sternward, under a spread of heavy canvas, a protection against rain and sun. She stopped abruptly at the sound of his voice, and lost the thread of what she was saying. Remember ——” Annabel clutched her sister’s arm. "In this pit," he added, pointing to the chasm below, "your brother is buried. I was Annabel the rake, ‘Alcide’ of the music halls. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure.
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