“Lady Liberty.” said Wednesday. “Like so many of the gods that Americans hold dear, a foreigner. In this case, a French woman, although, in deference to American sensibilities, the French covered up her magnificent bosom on that statue they presented to New York. Liberty,” he continued, wrinkling his nose at the used condom that lay on the bottom flight of steps, toeing it to the side of the stairs with distaste – “Someone could slip on that. Break their necks,” he muttered, interrupting himself. “Like a banana peel, only with bad taste and irony thrown in.” He pushed open the door, and the sunlight hit them. The world outside was colder than it had looked from indoors: Shadow wondered if there was more snow to come. “Liberty,” boomed Wednesday, as they walked to his car, “is a bitch who must be bedded on a mattress of corpses.”

Blood, rust, and hope, dim with the patina of pain and struggle: cast iron, copper, gold, and steel with a cluster of French perfume and American wildflowers, a fleck of dried blood, and a sliver of saddle leather.