Reflections were no longer perfect. The above ceased to mirror below. Below the meniscus the granite cliffs and great purple bruise of a damaged sky were gone. Down under, a gentle surf lapped the peaceful strand, and fishermen cast their nets on a sea pulsing with cod and bream.
“Tis the devil’s work,” Molly declared, needles clacking as they wound the soft strong wool. “Paradise be above, and below, a vale of tears.”
Nothing could convince her. Heaven below must be hell.
“The sky will clear,” she said, “and we’ll go back up. When I’ve finished my Jeb’s new jumper.”