She laughed, but the sound contained no mirth. “I am just like the moon. Young and old. Weak and bold. Distant and cold. I am a constant contradiction, even to myself.” “Mayhaps. But you are not distant or cold.” “I am. It is how I’ve survived. Just like the moon. The less I feel, the easier it is to go on. I have been this way for so long . . . I hardly remember if I was ever someway else.” “You are not cold, Ghisla. Not to me. You are color. You are sound. You are the song on the wind and the hope in my heart.”
