Annae had once been a small, obviously autistic child who chewed her hair and avoided people’s eyes and talked maniacally about whatever fascinated her most at the moment. She’d known no one liked her shrill voice, the keening sounds she made when she ran. She knew they didn’t like how smart she knew she was. And so she had studied style, studied whimsy, studied poise. Style, because it was a shield; whimsy, because it was a sword; poise, because it was a suit of armor.
