Where did that girl go, and who was this iron-nosed old witch? It wasn’t the supple skin she missed, necessarily, or even a set of knees that didn’t creak. It was the blithe, oblivious stride of the young, skipping down a wide velvety path toward a future they assumed was all peaches and cream. Headed for a meat grinder, more like, but they didn’t know it—and they looked at Reka like all she’d ever been was old and sour, like she’d never skipped down a wide velvety path, too, with exactly the same blithe assurance.
