Wax reached toward the left hand, and Harmony—shockingly—pulled it away. “Are you certain?” “I have to.” “Do you?” “I have to. It’s who I am.” “Then perhaps,” Harmony said, “you should stop hating that, my son.” He extended the hand. Wax hesitated. “Tell me one thing first.” “If it is within my means.” “Did she come here? When she passed?”
