I thought about the star police forming the same year I’d lost everything, about the flowers Jim had chosen for me. About life and Kildare’s new baby, all the infants born so thick and heedless around the globe, and that when I’d started there wasn’t a name for my singular profession, but nowadays people were calling me a detective. A child born in the year 1854 could not only grow up to do the same sort of work I seemed so inexplicably to excel at but could now put a name to the occupation. Maybe even be proud of it.
