rriving at a party, I’ll head for a quiet corner and engage one sympathetic soul in a heart-to-heart about books. Joyce always heads for the centre of things. Correction: the centre follows her. People just have to meet my sister. And from the moment she entered my life, I knew it. How piercingly adorable she looked in her bassinet—skin the color of gingerbread, eyes like pools of melted chocolate. Our parents exclaimed at her beauty while I longed to bite off her little cookie head.