Across from me, Lety’s eyes were focused on the webs of dark color that stained my skin, surging into new places every few seconds—the crook of my elbow, the rise of my collarbone, the corner of my jaw. “What do they feel like to you?” she asked me when she caught my eye. “I don’t know, what does any gift feel like?” I said irritably. “Well, I just remember things. Everything. Vividly,” she said. “So my gift feels like anyone else’s. . . . Like ringing in my ears, like energy.” “Energy.” Or agony. “That sounds right.” I swallowed some of the fermented feathergrass in my glass. Her face was a
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