Once they were finally alone, Alan took Taryn’s face between his hands and looked into her eyes. ‘You’re so sad, Taryn, and haunted, and out of step with others.’ Even Taryn could see this was true. She was always studying the world, not rapt or curious, but patient and dutiful, as if the world was something she’d paid good money to see. She was studying it now too—in the shape of Alan’s tender, troubled face. She was listening to the whisper of his smooth palm on the skin of her jaw, as he gazed at her and said, ‘Who are you, Taryn?’
