Marie goes heavily to the trunk she brought with her so long ago, which is empty save for a very ancient Byzantine ring of jacinthe, which had belonged to her grandmother. It can only fit on the final joint of Marie’s pinkie. When she wears it she sees golden birds diving through fields, a muscular river, and a springy gray-haired woman with no face but a soft voice, her grandmother. A thickness fills her throat that she cannot swallow away.
