On day forty-seven, Mira wrote back to her father.
She sat at the desk in her office in the early morning, before the compound was fully awake, with Marta's tea beside her and the window showing the dark training yards below, and she wrote.
Not forgiveness — she was not there yet and she was not going to pretend she was. Not condemnation either. Something in between. Something true.
She told him that she had read his letter. She told him she understood, not completely and not yet, but more than she had. She told him about her mother's list — that there were seventeen names, that her mother's was one of them, that all seventeen were now in the Elder Council's permanent record.
She told him that she was running Silverfang's intelligence operation and that she was good at it and that it w
