Her Sister’s Secret. E.V. Seymour
in its delivery, one instantly recognisable, boomed over our heads. We did a collective turn and watched as Chancer bounded down the steps of what had once been a Romany caravan. He carried more weight than I remembered, the buttons of his white, open-neck shirt, which hung loose outside his jeans, competing with flesh and gravity. Fuller-faced too, a little dissolute around the eyes, he looked as though he’d returned from an all-night party. Before I knew it, I was grabbed and spun off my feet. Startled, I briefly forgot that I was in mourning. So had he, it seemed.
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