She was heron-slender, vixen-light. His mother would love to have her for her own, her own daughter-that-never-was, sit her in the chair in front of the dressing mirror and nail her hands to it when she fidgeted, and brush her hair for hours and hours until all the gold in it was spun cobweb-fine and she wasted away into beautiful bones. But she’d be dead soon, anyway.
