His light blue eyes are clouded over and staring at nothingness as he leans on his cane, his hand trembling. I tried to heal him when that was a thing I realised I could do. Now, however, he sags beside my grandmother, half of his face twisted into a permanent grimace after a stroke two years ago. Hunter of pheasants, of foxes, but not of fortune-that he inherited from his father, who inherited it from his father, and on it goes. Lord Elliot II, was once a strapping, reed-backed but jolly Englishman’s Englishman. This is quite literally our ancestral home, built in the fifteen hundreds by Henry the Somethingth. Next to her, my grandfather softly droops under the grand dome above us, painted by some hideously famous artist centuries ago. Imagine it: five of us gathered like a wilting bouquet, my grandmother the lone thistle standing. WE ARE A TEARLESS, TINY crowd, we survivors of David Shaw.
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