Arden believed in perfection. It was, in truth, the only abstraction in which she did, still, believe. Beauty she dismissed as visual math, a calculated arrangement of objects—flowers in a vase, fruit in a bowl, features on a face—suggesting a precarious balance between order and diversity. Happiness was the (usually transitory, often illusory) recognition that one’s needs and desires were convergent and at least approaching a state of satisfaction. Luck was little more than the consequence of hard work, perseverance and a relentless dedication to seeking out opportunity. And love—here she faltered a bit—well, love was self-deception; love was a failure in vigilance; love was the ache in the butterfly’s wings that forces her, at last, …to alight?… no, to settle. Certainly (and at this, recurring, thought, she invariably narrowed her eyes and tightened her lips), in marrying Rennie she had settled.
