I must have lost consciousness, because the next thing I knew, I was waking up, face down in the sand of the beach near the place of the Transfiguration, and there was Chris, crouching down next to me to see if I was okay. And also there was the box of the Faberge eggs. I don't know why, or how, but I had the idea that they were a family treasure given me by my mother who had been a ballerina with the Kirov, and that we had escaped from Soviet Russia when I was a small child and we lived many years in London. All romantic nonsense, because I have long recalled my mother is a retired divorcee, former office worker, living in a small apartment in suburban Toronto. My father died last year from a heart attack. He never remarried. And I have a sister, Mary, three years older who lives in Winnipeg with her husband of twenty years and their three teenage offspring."
"So", says Carl, "Where did those eggs come from?"
"And that", says Matthew, "I would especially like to know, since I got to sell them and retire on the surplus.
"My only guess is that the old people and the kid must have given them to me"
"Who was that kid, anyway?" says Amanda.
"Why, who do you think it was", says Francois, incredulous....
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