He hadn’t been home in months. Whenever she came, her gift was the same. Into his hand, Jemma dropped a pomegranate, its skin dry and pocked. Around it a note had been wrapped after the fashion of his father, who sold damaged fruit on the edge of the merchant district, where street carts were permitted. His and Jemma’s gifts on their name days and any other special occasion had been the same—father’s best piece of fruit with a handnote as wrapping.
