His sea trilby tethered with rope, hair threaded with underwater green. His sea breeches, a silvery shade of brown (fish-skin perhaps) washed by coral-fronds.
The centre of it all, he says, is her Russell Hobbes kettle. Everything revolves around it - is drawn to it like the sun. And the steam that gushes forth from
Today, done up like a kipper, forgiveness belongs elsewhere. From his vantage point he sees a range of yellow hills - the vistas of lost childhood - the city walls and scrubland beyond.
She dips her kerchief into a pool of still-warm blood. It is the holy blood of the king and it will stain her cotton lace. Giddy at the sight of it she pushes through the wailing crowd,