Den is bereft, neglected and hopelessly depressed. With the flash of a blade and the swish of a blue cloak he has lost everything he ever loved. Can he live on through an eternity of blue November? What can save him? Revenge, elegant Deanna Macpherson, the man in the suit, the man with the steel-grey eyes, the cross on the green hill, escaping from perpetual rain, sunny Shani, a golden cross on a chain? They have all tried and failed. There is only one possibility remaining... Destiny.
And so I sit here in the gutter outside my house.
I am dry-eyed with focussed self-pity, but I am very, very angry; as I sit here, here in the gutter in the drizzle.
I keep seeing it happen, again and again. The flash of a blade, the cursed crimson of blood, the swish of blue as my sister's murderer takes to flight, and my sister there on the boards in a growing pool of red paint, though some instinct tells me that is not paint, a cruel knife in her chest.
I kneel beside her, hysterical, but she is dead and I cry out to curse the blue cloak that did this; then I am sitting here in a puddle in the street with my bare feet on the wet cobbles. And I stare into oblivion, willing my sister alive with the miraculous spirit I haven't got. She is gone, and life is as black as the ace of spades.
Then as I sit here I have a vision, of me, the unseen son of helpless, grief-stricken parents. Vere alone had faith in me. Now no one has.