Such bliss to look. I feasted my eyes on that gracefully angular form, just this side of her uncle and sitting quietly in black. She had worn a white quilted skiing jacket outside, but now had taken it off in the unfittingly chilly crematorium, and sat in a black blouse and black skirt, black… tights? Stockings? My God, the sheer force of joy in just imagining! and black shoes. And shivering! The slick material of the blouse trembling in the light from the translucent panes overhead, black silk hanging in folds of shade from her breasts, quivering! I felt my chest expand and my eyes widen. I was just about to look away, reckoning that I had gazed to the limits of decency, when that shaven-sided, crop-haired head swivelled and lowered, her calm face turning this way. I saw those eyes, shaded by her thick and shockingly black brows, blink slowly; she looked at me.

Small smile, and those diamond eyes piercing, marking me.

Then the gaze removed, refixed, directed somewhere else, once more facing the front. My neck felt un-oiled as I turned away, blasted and raddled by the urge of that directed consideration.

Verity Walker. Eating my heart out. Consuming my soul.

* * *

"And dad's mole?"

"Here," Grandma Margot said, tapping her left shoulder. She laughed a little as we went along the path between the shore and the trees. "That one itches fairly often."

"And mine?" I asked, plodding after the wheelchair. I'd taken my biker's jacket off and it lay now on my gran's lap.

She looked up at me, her expression unreadable. "Here." She patted her tummy, looked forward again. "Pivotal, wouldn't you say, Prentice?"

"Ha," I said, still trying to sound non-committal. "Could be. What about Uncle Hamish? Where's he at?"

"Knee," she said, tapping the plaster on her leg.

"How is your leg, gran?"

"Fine," she said tetchily. "Plaster comes off next week. Can't happen soon enough."