I told him that the version of him in this second life — the man who drove to a harbour at ten PM and tracked scholarship applications and sat beside me for two minutes without saying a word — was someone I had not known existed.
I told him I had come to Crestholm to take back what was mine. And that somewhere in the last three weeks, the shape of what was mine had changed.
When I finished, the October light was doing something extraordinary across the stone walls and Marcus had completed approximately six circuits of the field.
Damien was very still.
Not the professional stillness. Not the controlled-management stillness. The complete, absolute stillness of a man who has received information that has restructured everything adjacent to it and is currently doing the work of reconstruct
