She looked roughly my age, but that meant nothing in Yvelia. She was probably nine hundred years old. Her hair was a fiery red and wavy, her eyes a vivid, bright blue. Freckles dominated her face, even scattered across her forehead. Her clothes were practical—a loose cream shirt with billowing sleeves, a velvet waistcoat in hunter green with gold buttons down the front, and fitted black pants. “Everyone, this is Iseabail.”
