“What is so special about this painting?” It comes out in a whisper. Her shoulders hitch and I can’t tell if it’s a hiccup or a swallowed sob. “It’s my mother.” I suspected. Knowing gives me a strange sense of relief that I’d guessed correctly. The eyes, the hair, they are Cinder’s. “She died in childbirth. It’s the only picture I’ve ever seen of her.” Cinder’s voice is thick with emotion. “And it’s painted by my father’s hand. When I’m with this painting it’s my family, all of us together.” “You look like her,” I point out, nudging her with my shoulder. A lop-sided smile springs to her lips.
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