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stocking, and they goggle at you like curious marsupials as you pour your whisky.
    Even at a distance one discerns the careful, even obsessive craftsmanship that went into each of these puppets. They wear hand-knit Aran jumpers in soft flecked wool, herringbone trousers and tiny leather wingtips, frothy lawn dresses and off-the-shoulder evening gowns. In their little wooden hands they carry golf clubs and croquet mallets, paintbrushes and knitting needles. Draw nearer and you’ll see the freckles on their noses and forearms, crow’s-feet, cleft chins, and liver spots. Their eyes are full of expression: some are wistful, others mischievous. The older puppets wear hats trimmed with dusty silk flowers, bustle skirts or crinolines, wimples and rough homespun; the men wear waistcoats, bow ties, spats, and what have you. One puppet in the dining room has a dime-sized pocket watch, and if you’re the first one up in the morning you can hear it ticking while you’re having your breakfast.
    The parrot is another subject of curiosity. Hieronymus is an African grey, a species known for its skill in mimicry. He resides mostly in the sitting room, on a perch of eucalyptus wood beside an antique lectern. Not only is our parrot literate, but his IQ is probably higher than yours (and you shouldn’t feel bad about that, really, because the bird is smarter than anyone in the Harbinger clan). But he doesn’t say much, since he’s too busy working his way through the metaphysical poets. After that he’ll be on to the Scottish romantics, and yes, he turns his own pages with a flick of his claw. The parrot takes most of his meals at the lectern—Helena spends a small fortune each month on organic flaxseed and sardines millésimées —and a couple of times a day he flies up two flights of stairs and through an attic window (always kept open for this purpose) for a bit of fresh air. He roosts up there, too, in a cage without a door.
    You should know that the bird is entirely too proud to provide any intentional amusement. The Manhattanites who are regular guests are used to this, and so they pay him little attention even while they are having themselves a dram at the sideboard.
    Which is what they’re doing now, judging by the laughter I can hear through the parlor door. If they stay too long the parrot will begin to mock them. There’s an old record playing on the turntable in the dining room—torch music, disgustingly sentimental—and I make my way toward the distant tinkling of ice cubes.
    Each of the puppets above the kitchen sink holds a baking mitt or spatula in her little wooden hand. They sway in the faint breeze from the open window, their jointed legs clonking faintly, and seem to smile down at my niece as she chops up a spray of fresh mint and stirs it into a glass pitcher of lemonade. A lock of her lovely red-gold hair has fallen out of her ponytail, and there’s a dreamy smile on her face as she watches the neighbors’ children playing tag through the window above the sink. It’s her forty-fifth birthday tomorrow, but to ordinary men she doesn’t look a day past eighteen.
    Harry’d given me a box on my way out so I could give Vega her present straightaway. I rest the shopping bag on one of the kitchen chairs, we seat ourselves at the table, and Vega pours us each a glass. But she wastes no time, that girl: “What’s that in the shopping bag, Auntie?”
    Seems like we are forever celebrating birthdays. I pull out the box with the looking glass inside. “Happy birthday, dear,” I say as she exclaims in delight at her new treasure. “I thought it would be nice for you to have an extra hand mirror.” I pause. “Just one catch.”
    Vega raises the mirror and regards her reflection for a moment, then tilts it so she can see over her shoulder. She frowns. “You’ve done it now, Auntie. Freaky bastard, isn’t he?”
    I cluck my tongue. “Beat his wife, I’d say.”
    “It belonged to her, of course.” With her