Charlie said, then put aside the pie and took the cup reverently in both hands. “Now this is special.” “Do you know anything about that writing?” she asked, eager. “It’s old Iriali,” he said. “They vanished, you know. The entire people: poof. There one day, gone the next, their island left uninhabited. Now, that was three hundred years ago, so no one alive has ever met one of them, but they supposedly had golden hair. Like yours, the color of sunlight.” “My hair is not the color of sunlight, Charlie.” “Your hair is the color of sunlight, if sunlight were light brown,”
