That twelve signified completion was not in dispute. They both knew the symbology. Setting aside the Imams, Apostles and Tribes, of concern to each of them, mother and daughter in turn, were the twelve signs of the zodiac and the twelve notes in the chromatic scale. Yet all things ended at twelve and Harriet felt ill-disposed towards the containment the number implied. As if through it the cosmos had reached its limit of emanation and, duly sated, foreclosed on thirteen, a number doomed to exist forevermore as a mere twelve–plus–one.
Her gaze slid from the pianola to her lap, a soothing dark green, and she found she was able to liberate herself from her musings, at least for a brief moment. For Harriet Brassington-Smythe was apt to read much into life when there was not much to be read. H
