The Princess of Feathers, given that name by her father because of her delicate curved eye lashes, reached across the table to her brother. They hooked their little fingers, as they had always done with each other in this fashion, since before they could remember. They had speculated that it had been so even in the womb for they were the closest of twins. He was called the Prince of Buttons, also by their father, because he favored hard things that joined the un-joinable.
Down the table was Harriet who was just finishing the last notes of her song about wallpaper. In her lap she held her pet echidna, Doris, who like to blow bubbles. It snuffled and tried to borough deeper into her lap. Next to her was her husband Arnold, not Arnie, it was not allowed to call him anything but Arnold. However Uncle Arnold was allowed, but just for them. He was a bartender by profession with the requisite bulbous red nose.
At the opposite end of the table sat the children’s mother, Morris. Morris and their father had hired a woman to bear them a child. To keep things from getting confused, their father and Morris had decided which roles they that would play. Father was not there, of course, because this was his wake.