“Feather who?” Mama inquired, flopping like a length of satin across her chaise longue, fanning her face with a manicured hand. “I’ve never heard of anyone Feather. It doesn’t sound like a particularly good family. Sounds like a tribe of dustmen, if you ask me.” “How does he earn his money?” the iron man asked, jocular and lazy after a big lunch, determined not to leave all the twitting to his wife. “Stealing leftovers? Raiding picnics?” Maddy looked from one to the other, disappointed to feel herself crestfallen. She should have expected this reception, yet her happy heart had not. The air in the library seemed suddenly thick to breathe. From walls between bookcases her ancestors glowered accusingly at her. “Feather doesn’t need money, Papa,” she said. “He spends all day at the beach.” “All day at the beach?” Mama was taken aback. “Doing what — flapping his wings? Or is he a fisherman, is that what you’re saying? Am I to be mother-in-law to a pirate?
