She longed to own something lasting, anything, but knew her wishes to be stupid. She had heard the trader utter it many times. “I wish they did,” he said, “but they don’t. “Do something!” But he laid by his prey, half-watching the fight, gorging on the woman he had caught that had been meant for Rhea and her child. “That,” he said, grimly, with his hand on the doorhandle, “must be your own affair, unless you choose to live at Morningside Park. Spurling, drily. And through it all, like a golden thread on a piece of tapestry, weaving in and out of the patterns, the unspoken longing for love.
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