Celebrations

It should have felt like looking down at that little basket in the Bentley’s passenger seat, like staring down at the crib at the American cultural attaché’s manor. Delectable potential, terrifying potential, the edge overlooking the Eastern Gate as two humans—the first two—walked away with a flaming sword and a baby on the way.It should have felt like something rather ineffable were going to happen.Instead, it felt as if he could have—should have stayed here. The bookshop, his Mayfair flat, the park, London, bugger it all. Leave it for a cottage fit for two and a garage with a door that locks so that the local kids—goat and human—wouldn’t scratch the Bentley’s paint job.in the events between