The photo room was smaller than I expected.
Warm light positioned at deliberate angles, a pale backdrop, a low stool set to one side that no one intended for me to use. The photographer moved quietly, adjusting equipment with practiced efficiency, his attention already on the technical problems of light and shadow rather than the human ones standing inside them.
Camille followed me in and made two small adjustments without asking, a tendril tucked, the pearl comb pressed half a millimeter firmer. Then she stepped back and assessed me the way she assessed everything, with the satisfaction of someone who had already done the hard work and was simply confirming it held.
"Good," she said. "Stand here."
I stood where she pointed.
The photographer looked up. Something in his expression shif
