The china girl was thumb-wide and tall as a plum, or something similarly holdable. She sat in Gethin’s palm and winked at him.
Gethin had bought her for his niece, who was five and just out of hospital, and in a small way for his sister, because his niece needed constant distraction. But when he had tried to lie the china girl in tissue, she had thrashed wildly with her head and flailed with her limbs and torn the wrapping to violet shreds with her teeth.
Gethin, who had the loveliest slate floors, closed his eyes tight and dropped her.