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By Schweitzer C.E.

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It’s half-obscured by one of Adam’s and my wedding, but I think it’s an enlargement made from some small part of a lost original. Mark’s grainy and insubstantial, as memories are; the harder you look at 54 i EM M A DA RW I N i them, the more they break up into dust, and yet you can’t help peering at your memories in the hope that they’ll come clearer. Mark did leave me—us—the Press—and I never knew why, not really, and we never heard from him again. At last I wrote, but I got no answer. Perhaps it’s because we’re in the workshop that suddenly, somewhere in the depths of me, the old scar starts to ache.

All those colophons and presses, all that paper and iron and ink, I’ve had enough. I want to know someone—really know them—by their books. I . . ” 30 i EM M A DA RW I N i “Who? Oh—yes—hang on . . Wars of the Roses? ” “Yes. They were brother and sister. Elizabeth was married to Edward IV. She was married to Sir John Grey before, though, and had two sons. He was killed in battle, and she married Edward. ” The shepherd’s pie is very hot; I have to drink some water before I can go on. “It’s about what books they owned—what Anthony wrote—and what they might have read, and what that tells us about them.

Funny little thing, you were—what were you? Fourteen months or so? I think I thought you’d be like Lionel, always 28 i EM M A DA RW I N i shouting and running about, only you were so solemn and quiet, holding on to Uncle Gareth with one hand and Smokey Bear with the other. You’d only just learned to walk. ” It’s true, she did. With Aunt Elaine it didn’t matter that I had no parents of my own, that no one had been able to find out much about my mother, that my parents hadn’t been married. There was Aunt Elaine’s husband, Uncle Robert, but for all practical purposes she and Uncle Gareth were my parents.

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Ethyleneurea by Schweitzer C.E.

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