“So careless,” I muttered. “I was hiking. . . . I fell down the rocks. I was . . . cleaning up after dinner. A knife was in my hand. . . .” My hesitations seemed like part of the shock to her. She didn’t look at me with suspicion — or humor, the way Ian sometimes did when I lied. Only concern. “You poor dear! What’s your name?” “Glass Spires,” I told her, using the rather generic name of a herd member from my time with the Bears.
