Cleo's eyes sparkled the light within them was so clear. Her neck was slender and the fine bones of her shoulders precious as alabaster and could not be diminished and could not be hidden by the flutes which crowded toward her collar. "Every morning was that way," she said, "and every night. The world was steady and right was on the top."
        Nights were big as hearts could be and as dark but darksome illumined by the suitable fires of the realm. They had always been, the eyes of the cat, the eyes of the bat, the fox, the bird, the whispering polished stones and the gossiping lesser goddesses. Night took them and was them and all became transformed constantly into the new which like breath was new and old once and future always night was the turn of time where things moved and fruit fell with a singular sunless sound.
        The river was there in the morning gray growing green and roping through golden sands, the dark mud, the bright reeds where hopeful birds clasped tightly promise and crocodile eyes captured the world.
        Hamish strode the river, by which Cleo told them how he crossed it and conquered new folds of cliff and rods of tunneled veins and all upon a breakfast of fruit and tea.
        Hamish took care about the water. He rolled his sleeves and kept the watch of his favorite uncle in his vest pocket. He wrote in books at night and stood to pace the pearly rooftops his mind ablaze with coursing insights while he gazed upon the realms of stars and rose with the morning with the river to find water in his basin and the blossom of the heady day between his face and mirror.
        "Hamish," and Cleo's voice had become soft as a nursery blanket, as chamomile tea in a delicate cup, "saw the comb. Others could see the breastplates, the headdresses, even the sandals, but Hamish could see the comb."