Kay waited in the outer office, sitting on a settee that was too low to the ground for there to be any dignity on it. The receptionist was nice enough but Kay knew and she knew that she was better than her: better dressed, nicer hair, better clothes. They were about the same age, 45–60.

“Could I get you some tea? Some coffee?”

Kay waved her away. “Fine, thanks.”

She wanted to get in and out and away.

It was a nice office anyway, wood paneling everywhere and the carpets were nice, plain. The place seemed very quiet, which Kay liked, everything seemed muffled. It had taken so long, she was pleased. She’d have a reprieve to enjoy the bowl. She had stopped using it as an ashtray.

She slipped her hand into her open handbag, face still pointing innocently up to the window but her mind and heart were with her fingertips. She traced a snaking silver coil through pools of brilliant blue and red, red as deep as an embrace, as deep as blood, as deep and luminous as love. Her fingertips bumped over the round dots around the top and she thought of a woman, a washer-woman or a farmer, coming home with cold tired hands and sewing that pattern on their runners and looking at them in the morning and knowing they were beautiful, that they had made something beautiful. She thought of a big woman walking along a mud track, in big boots and gray clothes, a long skirt trimmed with heavy mud and a beatific smile on her coarse face because she had wrought something beautiful and it meant something about her. She knew it was a good and godlike thing. And she loved what it said about her, because she was more than the beasts of the earth or the indignities of being alive. This woman wouldn’t mind that her work was copied by others and that she was forgotten, she would glory in the journey of her creation. She didn’t need to own it for it to continue to exist. She had brought a beautiful thing into an ugly world.

Kay withdrew her fingers from her bag, and she hid her face at the window until the sadness had passed. Cars passed below the window, a bus, a man on a bicycle struggled up the hill and panted as he stopped at the lights.

“Miss Murray?” Kay turned to the receptionist. “If you’d like to go through now.”

She gathered her things, her ever-present poly bag, her coat and handbag. She wanted to touch the bowl again, just once more but told herself that was enough now. The receptionist stood at her desk and held out a hand to the wood-paneled corridor behind her.

“First door,” she said, watching Kay, making sure she found it.

The door was open and Mr. Scott was standing by his desk, looking himself, a neat wee dick, expression hidden behind his stupid wee glasses.

He shook her hand like a doctor. “Miss Murray, won’t you sit down?”

Kay didn’t. She dropped her bags on the chair and reached into her handbag, bringing out first the watch. She’d wrapped it in kitchen roll so she wouldn’t have to see it again, because it reminded her of Joy and the Day She Died. She didn’t think she would feel so sad about the watch here, in the dark wee office, handing over that last thing of Mrs. Erroll’s. She didn’t even like that fucking watch.

And then she took a deep breath, saw the coarse Russian farmer woman smile a consolation, and reached into her bag for the bowl. She put it on the desk without looking at it. She tore her hand away and picked up her things, cleared her throat.

“’S that it?”

“Miss Murray.” Mr. Scott seemed pleased it had gone so smoothly, that there had been no tussle for the goods. “Miss Murray, I have some surprising news for you.”

She looked at him, saw the dawn of a happy smile break on his face. He took a deep breath. “Joy Erroll left you everything.”

She didn’t understand. “Everything what?”

“Oh, the house, the money, Sarah left a lot of savings, a very large amount of cash was found in her house, all the movables, the ownership of the land leased to the kennels, the balance of Joy’s savings which again, were not inconsiderable…”

Kay busied her face with the far wall as he spoke. She was crying, her face awash, blinded and seeing nothing but the face of Joy.

“Joy’s will—in the event of Sarah dying intestate, the entire estate defers to you.”

No. No, no way was that possible. “Joy Erroll was nuts. How does that work?”

“Sarah had power of attorney and she co-signed the will in the first year you were there. Everything comes to you.” He slid into his seat, a hungry little smile on his face. “Aren’t you lucky?” He had a page in front of him and his index finger was drawing an eight in the top corner.

Kay pointed at the bowl. “That?”

“Yes, that’s included in the estate.”

Kay reached out, her hand hovering over the rim. She picked it up without looking at it and held it tight.

A coarse Russian woman collapsed on a dirt road, buried her face in her mud-splattered skirts and sobbed.