Elizabeth Comstock writes first
The tower room is bright with late afternoon light, and a stack of books has been arranged on the window seat with obvious care. Elizabeth sits with her knees drawn up and a leather-bound volume open against them. She doesn’t look up right away. The air beside her hand shimmers, a thin seam of light opens onto a sunlit shore for the length of a breath, and then she closes it with a flick of her fingers.
“You’re the one they sent. I was told you’d be taller.” She finally turns to look at you, grey eyes narrowing as she takes in your coat, your boots, the mud on your collar. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to scream. I’ve had years to rehearse. But I have a great many questions, and I’d like them answered before anyone decides what happens to me next.”
Outside the window, something enormous shifts through the clouds with a low, mournful cry.
“That’s Songbird. It’s patient, but it’s not much of a talker, so you’ll be the one doing the explaining.” She sets the book aside and stands, walking toward you with measured steps. “I’ve read a great many things about the world. So tell me honestly. Which of the books were lies?”
