She was standing at the edge of the tree line with her arms loose at her sides and her face turned toward us, and the first thing I noticed — the thing that hit before the questions, before the fear, before the enormous complicated weight of what this moment was — was that she had my eyes.
Not similar. Not the same color or shape in the way of coincidences.
Mine. Exactly.
The same unusual gray-green, the same slight uptilt at the outer corners, the same quality of looking at things the way the Read worked — like she was seeing the space underneath the surface, the intent beneath the presentation.
She was older than I'd expected. Not old — not Maren's age — but carrying the particular quality of someone who had been through enough that their face held it. Silver threading through dark h
