"She's ready," he said.
She didn't ask how he knew. Fenn knew things about the right time the way Sable knew things about elevation and light. The mechanism was opaque. The result was reliable.
"For the letters," she said.
"Yes," he said. "Bring the drawer things to the Hold this Sunday. All of them. I'll be there."
"Fenn," she said. "She's not two yet."
"No," he said. "But she's ready. There's a difference between age and readiness." A pause. "You know that."
She held the phone.
He was right.
She'd known it about Evie at seventeen. She'd known it about Daven at twenty-four. She'd known it about herself, eventually, sitting on a kitchen floor at twenty-three knowing the work was hers before she had the language for it.
Readiness wasn't age.
"Sunday," she said.
"Yes," he said.
"
