Little Bao winced. It was not the rain that bothered him, for it was gentle and almost molten with warmth as it dripped through the wispy leaves of the Angsanas sprouting up from the mud. The boy grimaced at the figure before him, carved as it was from some cheap synthetic simulacrum of stone. The pigments, a smattering of cerise, magenta, turquoise, and a once-electric hue of green, were fading. Cracks interrupted the intricate curlicues and radial spokes that terminated in feathers, claws, and an expressive visage set beneath a bejeweled crown. Suparna sensed that the source of her younger