The mark of Arthur Mercer Senior.
The mark of the bedrock.
Little Eleanor ran straight to Garrett’s legs, throwing her small arms around his knee, then scrambling up into Evan’s lap, setting her basket of strawberries on the chestnut table, throwing her strong, loving little arms around my son's neck, pressing her soft, warm cheek against his:
“Evan! Daddy!” Eleanor laughed into the morning breeze, her heartbeat beating in rhythmic, sixty-cycle perfection against his:
“Plumb level!”
“Good doggie!” Eleanor cheered, kissing Barnaby’s golden forehead as the dog wagged his tail:
“The bad parasites are in their cages!”
“We are home, Daddy!”
Barnaby thumped his golden tail against the deck: thump.
I reached down, holding my brave, beautiful children against my chest while Garrett, Thomas, and Uncle David stood beside us, feeling our steady, healthy hearts beating in unyielding, sovereign harmony:
“Nobody is ever kicking you on the canvas, ridiculing your strength, or stealing your birthright again, my brave boy,” Chancellor Damon Arthur Mercer replied:
