Lena's POV
My uncle's voice was smaller than I remembered.
That was the first thing I noticed. Not the words, the quality of the voice itself. The particular register of a man who had spent his whole life performing a size he wasn't actually and had finally run out of the energy for the performance.
"Lena," he said.
Just my name. The way Damian had said it in the library — but different. Where Damian's version had contained something careful and earned, my uncle's carried the weight of someone who knew they had no right to the word anymore and was using it anyway.
"Robert," I said.
A pause. I heard him absorb the use of his first name.
"I need to see you," he said.
"No," I said.
The word came out cleanly, without anger, without the trembling edge I might have expected from myself
