Selene had always drawn.
It had started the same way the notebooks had started, as necessity rather than choice. When you could not speak, when the words that other people released into the air with easy carelessness had to find a different route out of you, they found whatever route was available. For her they had found two.
The written word, precise and controlled, the notebook language she had built into something nearly as fluent as speech. And the drawn line, less precise, less controlled, the language that came out when the written word was not enough or not right or not the shape of the thing she was trying to say.
She drew the way she wrote. Constantly and privately and in the notebooks that lived under her bed in a stack that had been growing since she was nine years old.
She
