"An apt metaphor," Mina said with a wane smile. "'All we are is the spit of fate.' I rather like it. If my mother were alive, I would have her needlepoint it into a pillow. Gold letters, I think. On a blue cloth. Regal, for such a sentiment."

Mina paid the clerk. It was a trifle annoying, this business of worrying about a budget. She had been blessed back in Chicago, to have a fine paycheck to fritter away as she saw fit. She had no need to pay for rent back there, she could stay in the hospital. Nor, for that matter, did she have to pay for things like blood and booze. One of the few advantages of being with Doyle, she supposed.

"What else do you need, my dear?" she asked, turning back to Jacqueline. "Now that your furniture budget has been so generously increased?"