Their drowned faces are not so white and ﬁshy as you might expect. Floating barely beneath the surface in the blood-red light, they are, in fact, rather the colour of rotted roses.
She still smiles in spite of all that has happened. He wears a shockingly boyish expression upon his face.
Beneath them, coiled like tangled tentacles of sea-weed, black ribbons dangle down into the liquid depths.
I touch the surface—write their initials in the water with my foreﬁnger:
So closely are this man and this woman linked, that the same three letters stand for them both: Harriet de Luce and Haviland de Luce.
My mother and my father.
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