For a moment she remained silent. Her mother had died when she was thirteen, her two much older sisters had married off—one submissively, one insubordinately; her two brothers had gone out into the world well ahead of her, and so she had made what she could of her father. Then to the Feathers, in Drury Lane. They sat down in a covered pavilion that housed a grimy picnic table and a dingy fire pit. Without a word, without a sign, Enschede started toward the beach, where his proa waited. She felt the whack from about six feet away, kitty corner. “Sure. Not a bark could be discerned on the river, except those already mentioned.
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