down, court; down, king

Shiv’s wings are dove-white and sweetly rounded; they’ll play well on the cover of a magazine, against a swatch of tasteful nudity or slipping out of a tailored turtleneck. Nobody really wants to ask questions about the chain of transmission. The brothers are all represented in the incestuous ranks – Roman and Kendall, twin crows; Connor, dust-brown and gooselike. Wings for Willa and Karolina, none for Gerri. (“Too old?” she says, sardonic.) Greg has the wingspan of a swan, sweeping coffee cups off tables. But Tom Wambsgans hangs behind with his unadorned back to the wall, and flashes his white teeth.