I come from a village of basket weavers. Wicker to wool, bamboo to bark—if it was meant to hold something, we could craft it.

When his father moved out, Tyler went mute, sitting in his room surrounded by Tinkertoys, building cars and houses that would not break. He would ignore the voice of his mother that penetrated the carpeted floor, punctuated with words that made him sweat.

One of the bright guests died suddenly that evening.  It was Miss Helena, who wore a long strand of pearls and an ostrich feather in her hair.  Some said she’d drowned in the mansion’s gray fountain. Others claimed she’d fallen down the garden’s stony stair.