The story did not erase Rain's past, or undo the years of shame and the nights spent wondering why she had done it.
But something in it eased the sharpness of that shame. She began to carry herself with a little more ease, as though she had been granted a strange sort of privilege by comparison.
The two women now spent long afternoons talking, their voices drifting through the house in low murmurs. Their growing friendship was genuine, even if it often ended with Rain turning her irritation on me in the form of sharp pinches or well-aimed swats whenever Zanya's jokes grew too bold.
Sunshine, my second daughter, had always been drawn to anything soft and adorable.
The moment she saw Sekhmet—the cat beastkin with her restless tail and quiet green eyes—she was lost.
She treated the beastkin with the open delight of a child meeting a rare and wonderful creature, with a wonder that never seemed to fade.
