Wren's Pov
She chose a bookshop on the edge of the financial district, an old one, the kind with a bell over the door and a cat asleep in the window, which struck me as either careful or sentimental, and I couldn't decide which possibility frightened me more.
I got there twenty minutes early. Old habit, you learn a room before the room learns you're in it, and I stood in the poetry aisle where I could see the door without being seen from it, counting exits the way I count everything, and told myself I wasn't shaking.
I was shaking.
She came in at exactly the time she'd said, alone, no driver visible through the window, no second coat lingering near the door the way people linger when they're minding someone. Taller than I remembered. Twenty-one now instead of sixteen, and something abo
