Xanthoceras

“Xantho-what?” Widow Mayfair said from the plush red armchair in her stately parlor.

Ceras sighed. “Ceras. Xanthoceras. Everyone just calls me Ceras, though.”

The widow sniffed. “I should hope so. What were your parents thinking, giving you such a name? And for such a scrawny lad.” She clicked her tongue and shook her head. “A person needs to grow into a name like that. If you ever do, I’ll eat my handkerchief.” She put such a handkerchief up to her nose, peering at Ceras over frills of lace...