I pick up the photograph next, flapping it between my fingers. “Do you still think I look like my mother?” Silence. “I thought it was odd when you mentioned that I looked like her from the pictures you had seen,” I say slowly. “See, we didn’t have any photos of my father’s wife, Alice.” My feet tread a path across the carpet, the dress’s hem lapping at my ankles. “I mean, a Transfer is needed to impress a Sight’s memory onto the page, and it all becomes far more expensive than it’s worth.”
