Gertrude, Queen of Denmark

There's a woman walking slowly through the gardens of the Mansion: red-haired and beautiful, even in her fifties; the sun strikes fire from the emerald necklace at her throat and the flyaway strands of her hair. There's a warmth in her eyes that invites you in, that says she could be a confidante and a friend--and, too, a shrewdness that seems to see through you as though you were a clear lake. She touches each late bloom and spray of tawny grass with careful hands.

A part of her knows that this is only a temporary visitation, more than a dream and less than a miracle. She wears a queer little pocketwatch on a chain around her neck, and it ticks down the hours until she must depart again.