“What did you like doing with her?” she’d asked her father. Markham had paused, as if the answer was a hard one to collect. Perhaps it was; he so seldom spoke about her Juliana sometimes wondered if she were half a dream, a creature summoned only when thought of. “Everything,” he said finally. “Or rather… nothing. I liked doing nothing with her but being.” Juliana frowned, her fingers stroking her ragdoll, its felt hands turned threadbare. “I don’t understand.” “You will, one day.”
