Layer Hair Cut Quotes

Someone could cut through the mess in our house and look at it like one might look at rings on a tree or layers of sediment. They'd find the black-and-white hairs of a dog we had when I was six, the acid-washed jeans my mother once wore, the seven blood-soaked pillowcases from the time I skinned my knee. All our family secrets rest in endless piles.

Project Princess Teeny feet rock layered double socks Popping side piping of many colored loose lace ups Racing toe keeps up with fancy free gear slick slide and just pressed recently weaved hair Jeans oversized belie her hips, back, thighs that have made guys sigh for milleni year Topped by an attractive jacket her suit’s not for flacking, flunkies, junkies or punk homies on the stroll. Her hands mobile thrones of today’s urban goddess Clinking rings link dragon fingers no need to be modest. One or two gap teeth coolin’ sport gold initials Doubt you get to her name just check from the side please chill. Multidimensional shrimp earrings frame her cinnamon face Crimson with a compliment if a comment hits the right place Don’t step to the plate with datelines from ‘88 Spare your simple, fragile feelings with the same sense that you came Color woman variation reworks the french twist with crinkle cut platinum frosted bangs from a spray can’s mist Never dissed, she insists: “No you can’t touch this.” And, if pissed, bedecked fists stop boys who must persist. She’s the one. Give her some. Under fire. Smoking gun. Of which songs are sung, raps are spun, bells are rung, rocked, pistols cocked, unwanted advances blocked, well stacked she’s jock. It’s all about you girl. You go on. Don’t you dare stop.

She wept, and Lazlo drew her into an embrace as though it were the most natural thing in the world that he should draw a mournful goddess against his shoulder, enfold her in his arms, breathe the scent of the flowers in her hair, and even lightly stroke her temple with the edge of his thumb. And though there was a layer of his mind that knew this was a dream, it was momentarily shuffled under by other, more compelling layers, and he experienced the moment as though it were absolutely real. All the emotion, all the sensation. The texture of her skin, the scent of her hair, the heat of her breath through his linen shirt, and even the moisture of tears seeping through it. But far more intense was the utter, ineffable tenderness he felt, and the solemnity. As though he had been entrusted with something infinitely precious. As though he had taken an oath, and his very life stood surety to it. He would recognize this later as the moment his center of gravity shifted: from being one of one—a pillar alone, apart—to being half of something that would fall if either side were cut away.

There MacRae was, disheveled and hatless, but breathtakingly handsome. To her pleased surprise, his hair had been cut and shaped to his head in short layers of amber and gold. He had the cool, sensual allure of a lost angel painted by Cabanel.

Mr. Kadam bowed and said, “Miss Kelsey, I will leave you to your dining companion. Enjoy your dinner.” Then he walked out of the restaurant. “Mr. Kadam, wait. I don’t understand.” Dining companion? What is he talking about? Maybe he’s confused. Just then, a deep, all-too-familiar voice behind me said, “Hello, Kells.” I froze, and my heart dropped into my stomach, stirring up about a billion butterflies. A few seconds passed. Or was it a few minutes? I couldn’t tell. I heard a sigh of frustration. “Are you still not talking to me? Turn around, please.” A warm hand slid under my elbow and gently turned me around. I raised my eyes and gasped softly. He was breathtaking! So handsome, I wanted to cry. “Ren.” He smiled. “Who else?” He was dressed in an elegant black suit and he’d had his hair cut. Glossy black hair was swept back away from his face in tousled layers that tapered to a slight curl at the nape of his neck. The white shirt he wore was unbuttoned at the collar. It set off his golden-bronze skin and his brilliant white smile, making him positively lethal to any woman who might cross his path. I groaned inwardly. He’s like…like James Bond, Antonio Banderas, and Brad Pitt all rolled into one. I decided the safest thing to do would be to look at his shoes. Shoes were boring, right? Not attractive at all. Ah. Much better. His shoes were nice, of course-polished and black, just like I would expect. I smiled wryly when I realized that this was the first time I’d ever seen Ren in shoes. He cupped my chin and made me look at his face. The jerk. Then it was his turn to appraise me. He looked me up and down. And not a quick look. He took it all in slowly. The kind of slow that made a girl’s face feel hot. I got mad at myself for blushing and glared at him. Nervous and impatient, I asked, “Are you finished?” “Almost.” He was now staring at my strappy shoes. “Well, hurry up!” His eyes drifted leisurely back up to my face and he smiled at me appreciatively, “Kelsey, when a man spends time with a beautiful woman, he needs to pace himself.” I quirked an eyebrow at him and laughed. “Yeah, I’m a regular marathon alright.” He kissed my fingers. “Exactly. A wise man never sprints…in a marathon.” “I was being sarcastic, Ren.” He ignored me and tucked my hand under his arm then led me over to a beautifully lit table. Pulling the chair out for me, he invited me to sit. I stood there wondering if I could sprint for the nearest exit. Stupid strappy shoes, I’d never make it. He leaned in close and whispered in my ear. “I know what you’re thinking, and I’m not going to let you escape again. You can either take a seat and have dinner with me like a normal date,” he grinned at his word choice, “or,” he paused thoughtfully then threatened, “you can sit on my lap while I force-feed you.” I hissed, “You wouldn’t dare. You’re too much of a gentleman to force me to do anything. It’s an empty bluff, Mr. Asks-For-Permission.” “Even a gentleman has his limits. One way or another, we’re going to have a civil conversation. I’m hoping I get to feed you from my lap, but it’s your choice.” He straightened up again and waited. I unceremoniously plunked down in my chair and scooted in noisily to the table. He laughed softly and took the chair across from me. I felt guilty because of the dress and readjusted my skirt so it wouldn’t wrinkle.

Damn it," the man facing her muttered. "Who are you?" "Lady Pandora Ravenel. I'll tell them..." Her voice trailed away as she found herself looking up at an arrogant young god, tall and big framed, every line of him taut with feline grace. The tiny pendant lamp overhead sent sunstruck golden glints playing among the thick, well-cut layers of his amber hair. His eyes were winter-blue, his cheekbones high and straight, the line of his jaw hard enough to chisel marble. The full, sensuous curves of his lips lent a note of erotic dissonance to his otherwise classic features. One glance at him was enough to make her feel as if she were trying to breathe at high altitude. What would it do to a man's character to be so inhumanly beautiful? It couldn't be anything good.

Goodness gracious, Benny, why on earth would you hide this beautiful head of hair all the time?" He looks down sheepishly, sending a couple of dark curls tumbling over his forehead. The top of his head is covered in a thick layer of them, shiny and perfectly tousled in spite of his best efforts to crush them in a structured fabric dome day in and day out. The sides are cut short, which makes it harder to tell that he's hiding anything this gorgeous under those caps of his. "Maybe I thought it'd be too much for you to handle. I didn't even own a hat before this summer," he jokes with a sideways smirk. I bring my hands up and thread them both through his curls slowly before grabbing hold and pulling his head back to mine. Brushing his lips with mine, I say, "On second thought, you might've been onto something.

The black-haired man she had seen in the courtyard was indeed McKenna. He was even larger and more imposing than he had seemed at a distance. His features were blunt and strong, his bold, wide-bridged nose set with perfect symmetry between the distinct planes of his cheekbones. He was too masculine to be considered truly handsome- a sculptor would have tried to soften those uncompromising features. But somehow his hard face was the perfect setting for those lavish eyes, the clear blue-green brilliance shadowed by thick black lashes. No one else on earth had eyes like that. "McKenna," she said huskily, searching for any resemblance he might bear to the lanky, love-struck boy she had known. There was none. McKenna was a stranger now, a man with no trace of boyishness. He was sleek and elegant in well-tailored clothes, his glossy black hair cut in short layers that tamed its inherent tendency to curl. As he drew closer, she gathered more details... the shadow of bristle beneath his close-shaven skin, the glitter of a gold watch chain in his waistcoat, the brutal swell of muscle in his shoulders and thighs as he sat on a rock nearby.

Open the so-called body and spread out all its surfaces: not only the skin with each of its folds, wrinkles, scars, with its great velvety planes, and contiguous to that, the scalp and its mane of hair, the tender pubic fur, nipples, nails, hard transparent skin under the heel, the light frills of the eyelids, set with lashes - but open and spread, expose the labia majora, so also the labia minora with their blue network bathed in mucus, dilate the diaphragm of the anal sphincter, longitudinally cut and flatten out the black conduit of the rectum, then the colon, then the caecum, now a ribbon with its surface all striated and polluted with shit ; as though your dress maker' s scissors were opening the leg of an old pair of trousers, go on, expose the small intestines' alleged interior, the jejunum, the ileum, the duodenum, or else, at the other end, undo the mouth at its corners, pull out the tongue at its most distant roots and split it, spread out the bats' wings of the palate and its damp basements, open the trachea and make it the skeleton of a boat under construction; armed with scalpels and tweezers, dismantle and lay out the bundles and bodies of the encephalon; and then the whole network of veins and arteries, intact, on an immense mattress, and then the lymphatic network, and the fine bony pieces of the wrist, the ankle, take them apart and put them end to end with all the layers of nerve tissue which surround the aqueous humours and the cavernous body of the penis, and extract the great muscles, the great dorsal nets, spread them out like smooth sleeping dolphins. Work as the sun does when you're sunbathing or taking grass.

Remembering what the Princess had told me about histories, I had to grin as I replaced the dusty book for what would probably be another hundred years. So now where? Of course I knew where. I turned toward the corner, staring at the tapestries to the little alcove where the memoirs for the heirs were stored. Bunching my skirts in either hand so they wouldn’t rustle, I moved stealthily to the tapestry and stood listening. No voices, certainly, and no sounds beyond the drumming of the rain against the near windows. So I lifted the tapestry--and looked across the room into a pair of familiar gray eyes. Dressed splendidly in black and gold, as if for Court, Shevraeth knelt at the desk, writing. For the third time that day, my face went hot. Resolutely reminding myself of my promise not to initiate any quarrels, I said, “Harantha Chamadis. Thirav Astiar. The Treaty of Seven Rivers. Is there a record?” Shevraeth didn’t say a word. He lifted his pen, pointed at a particular shelf, then bent his head and went right back to his task. For a moment I watched his pen traversing swiftly over the paper in close lines. Then my gaze traveled to the smooth yellow hair, neatly tied back, and from there to the lines of his profile. For the very first time I saw him simply as a person and not as an adversary, but I did not give myself the space to gauge my reactions. The curl of danger, of being caught at my observations and once again humiliated, caused me to drag my gaze away, and I trod to the shelf to which I’d been directed. A few swift glances through the books, and I found the memoirs of the queen of that time. A quick glance through showed the names I wanted repeated on a number of pages. Gripping the book in one hand and brushing back a strand of my wet hair with the other, I said, “Do you need my reason--” He cut in, lightly enough: “Just put it back when you’re done.” He kept his gaze on his writing, and his pen scarcely paused. Scrawl, dip, scrawl, dip. Two or three more words--then the pen stopped, and he glanced up again. “Was there something else?” he asked. Still polite, but very remote. I realized I’d been staring for a protracted time, my reactions frozen as if behind a layer of ice. I said in a rush, “The party, for Bran and Nee. Do you--should I send you--” He smiled just a little. “It would cause a deal of talk if you were to avoid inviting any of my family.” “Oh.” I gulped. “Yes. Indeed.” He dipped his pen, bent his head, and went back to his task. I slipped out the door and fled.

So you’ve run off from him, have you?” Beatrix asked, smoothing the wiry ruff on his head. “Naughty boy. I suppose you’ve had a fine old time chasing rabbits and squirrels. And there’s a damaging rumor about a missing chicken. You had better stay out of poultry yards, or it won’t go well for you in Stony Cross. Shall I take you home, boy? He’s probably looking for you. He--” She stopped at the sound of something…someone…moving through the thicket. Albert turned his head and let out a happy bark, bounding toward the approaching figure. Beatrix was slow to lift her head. She struggled to moderate her breathing, and tried to calm the frantic stutters of her heart. She was aware of the dog bounding joyfully back to her, tongue dangling. He glanced back at his master as if to convey Look what I found! Letting out a slow breath, Beatrix looked up at the man who had stopped approximately three yards away. Christopher. It seemed the entire world stopped. Beatrix tried to compare the man standing before her with the cavalier rake he had once been. But it seemed impossible that he could be the same person. No longer a god descending from Olympus…now a warrior hardened by bitter experience. His complexion was a deep mixture of gold and copper, as if he had been slowly steeped in sun. The dark wheaten locks of his hair had been cut in efficiently short layers. His face was impassive, but something volatile was contained in the stillness. How bleak he looked. How alone. She wanted to run to him. She wanted to touch him. The effort of standing motionless caused her muscles to tremble in protest. She heard herself speak in a voice that wasn’t quite steady. “Welcome home, Captain Phelan.” He was silent, staring at her without apparent recognition. Dear Lord, those eyes…frost and fire, his gaze burning through her awareness. “I’m Beatrix Hathaway,” she managed to say. “My family--” “I remember you.” The rough velvet of his voice was a pleasure-stroke against her ears. Fascinated, bewildered, Beatrix stared at his guarded face. To Christopher Phelan, she was a stranger. But the memories of his letters were between them, even if he wasn’t aware of it. Her hand moved gently over Albert’s rough fur. “You were absent in London,” she said. “There was a great deal of hullabaloo on your behalf.” “I wasn’t ready for it.” So much was expressed in that spare handful of words. Of course he wasn’t ready. The contrast would be too jarring, the blood-soaked brutality of war followed by a fanfare of parades and trumpets and flower petals. “I can’t imagine any sane man would be,” she said. “It’s quite an uproar. Your picture is in all the shop windows. And they’re naming things after you.” “Things,” he repeated cautiously. “There’s a Phelan hat.” His brows lowered. “No there isn’t.” “Oh, yes there is. Rounded at the top. Narrow-brimmed. Sold in shades of gray or black. They have one featured at the milliner’s in Stony Cross.” Scowling, Christopher muttered something beneath his breath.

The next instant she glimpsed a black horse cutting through the crowd, and a familiar, deep voice said, “Blue Eyes?” Hunter’s breath caught when Loretta turned at the sound of his voice. For an instant he forgot about the child cradled against his chest, his entire being focused on the beautiful woman who stood, surrounded by hostile squaws, in a cloud of settling dust. Her eyes shone like the brilliant blue at the base of a flame, dark lashes sweeping to the arch of her honey-gold brows. Her braid had come loose, and rich folds of golden hair spilled to her shoulders. She was so beautiful that he couldn’t believe, was almost afraid to believe, she truly belonged to him. Even in voluminous skirts, covered chin to toe in multiple layers of cloth, he could see the feminine lines of her body, the swell of her breasts, the indentation of her waist, the flare of her hips. Hunter had been proud of few possessions during his life. He had, of course, been proud of his first bow and his first coup feather. And he had certainly been proud of his wonderful war pony, Smoke. But the feeling that coursed through him now surpassed hat. This golden woman was bound to him by her God promise, his and only his, forever with no horizon. Desire, hot and urgent, flared to life inside him as he contemplated the coming night. The thought of having her in his buffalo robes, of loving her as he had dreamed of doing so many times, made the trials he had endured to find Amy seem like nothing.

Five years that she had been taking care of her sisters and the land. Five years where she’d dedicated everything to training for a supposed event that might or might not occur. How many of her ancestors had done the same thing? How many others had watched the years pass them by as they held to their believes with such certainty that they died for it? More importantly, did she want to be a casualty to this... whatever it was? “What do I do?” she asked the air. She threw out her arms and lifted her face to the sky. “What do I do?!” Her arms fell to her sides as she lowered her head. How could she have been so certain of things for so long, and now doubt everything? “What do you do about what?” The sound of the male voice startled her, causing her jerk around. She found him with one leg braced on the summit as he paused on the trail, a black brow quirked. Ettie opened her mouth, but there were no words as she took in the sight of him. He was...beautiful in a rugged, untamed way that made her heart race and her stomach quiver. It became impossible to breathe as she drank in the cut of his jaw and square chin. She tried not to stare at his mouth and thick bottom lip, but all she could think about was what it would be like to kiss him. Then she looked into his eyes. They were molten silver, dark and enigmatic like mercury. Those gorgeous eyes framed with long, black lashes watched her with the concentration of a hawk. Layers of thick ebony hair fell nearly to his shoulders with the top half of it pulled away from his face. He wore only a denim shirt and a cream tee beneath it along with faded jeans and black boots. She didn’t know how he was up there without a coat. His lips slowly pulled into a smile, and she realized she’d been ogling him. Ettie glanced away, but her gaze returned immediately. She laughed nervously, still unable to find words. “I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he said as he took the last step to the top. “I assumed since you shouted your question you might want an answer.” His Irish brogue was deep, throaty, and absolutely sexy. It was slightly different than anything she’d heard before, and she wanted more.

It seemed stupid that I had stayed in the cold stone room, knowing that as soon as the new day had crested, I was no longer in the Inquisitor’s service and no longer had to follow his orders. I finished eating and opened the package, revealing the complicated sections of leather pieces that somehow made up an outfit. Some of the sections were hardened with inlaid metal, a tarnished golden colour peeking through the stitching. I finally discerned something resembling the usual bodysuits worn beneath sectorian women’s clothing, though this one was different. It was thick brown leather, a silk underlining hidden on the inside. It moulded tightly to the body, two ovals cut into the sides, exposing the hips and the sides of the stomach and back. Some sort of covering fit over the top of the bodysuit, ending a few inches above the waist. The metal-inlaid patterns curved around the front of my chest and the top of my spine, connected with brown, buckled straps along my sides. A belted skirt slid over the hips, the belt pulling along the cut of the bodysuit, above my hips, another band looping around my hips. The skirt had two short layers. Yet another section of the outfit fit over my shoulders, metallic glimpses peering out from the leather that cupped my shoulders, attaching to the upper chest armour with straps. Another set of wraps covered my wrists and forearms, and I was glad to see the Inquisitor’s mark and the Spider’s mark disappearing from view. I was able to re-wear the same footwear, as there were also knee and thigh wraps in the same boiled brown leather that complemented the knee-high boots. The outfit was clearly some kind of warrior’s uniform. The Vold—and the Sentinels in particular—often wore revealing, scant clothing to show off their impressive physiques. With Calder’s cloak still on the ground, I could see half of his bare back above the golden armour that wrapped his torso. The muscles bunched and stretched as he pulled his forearm up for investigation. He had clearly stitched and re-dressed his wound after my dismal attempt at caring for it the night before. Despite my outfit showing so much skin, it was by far the heaviest thing I had ever worn, and I started to truly appreciate how quickly and silently Calder moved, weighed down as he must have been by so much armour. I tugged my hair over my shoulders, arranging the strands so that they might hide my face better. There was a lump in my throat when I stuffed everything back into my pack and muttered, “Done.

Pale lights illuminate The Seven’s inner chamber. Once bright, the lamps are overgrown, dimmed by a sheet of stone. The room is octagonal, one side for the supplicant, unadorned. Six others each house a figure, statue-like, covered from head to toe in a thick layer of rock. All appear human shaped, with discernible wings, their postures neutral, dead. The seventh alcove lies empty. The Vagrant holds the sword up, letting it hum, calling, calling. As if returning from a dream, The Seven respond, slowly, sonorously. Splitting the shells that cover them, yawning into life. One by one, they catch the call and return it, till the harmony swells, reverberating from the walls and leaping up, vanishing into the fathomless, ceilingless dark above. Beautiful sounds mature, becoming words, musical, passed from one to the other, filling the chamber and the Vagrant’s ears. ‘Mourning has become morning, and we rejoice …’ ‘We rejoice in the proximity of your flame once more …’ ‘Once more we are Seven …’ ‘Are Seven together, come …’ ‘Come and join with us …’ ‘Join with us your light, diminished but still bright.’ Six arms drift out, gesturing to the last alcove, inviting. Neither Vagrant nor sword move. An eye studies the chamber, pausing at each alcove, noting the blades housed there, buried beneath layers of stone, useless. Rage simmers between sword and Vagrant. He takes a lock of hair from an inner pocket, throws it down on the floor between them. The sword lowers to point at it, then sweeps across the figures, then makes a hard stab towards the doors. Six faces freeze as the joyous echoes of song die out. The Vagrant swallows in a throat suddenly dry. Vesper dares a quick peek from behind the Vagrant’s coat. Alpha, of The Seven, sings out. The note begins wondrous but imperfect, the others soon match him. ‘We see now your pain, most furious …’ ‘Most furious you are and desperate to fight …’ ‘To fight once more, your desire …’ ‘Your desire we grant, go forth, take a second flame to our enemies …’ Voices come together, their force rocking the Vagrant backwards until he is pinned to the wall. Vesper holds his hand tightly, little feet rising from the floor. ‘Do not stop …’ ‘Stop when the cancer …’ ‘Cancer is cut …’ ‘Cut from the bones …’ ‘Bones and flesh …’ ‘Flesh of the land …’ ‘Land is clean!’ The Vagrant closes his eyes, squeezes them tight. He braces himself against the sound, pulling Vesper behind him raising the sword in front. Silvered wings unfurl protectively, shielding his face. An eye widens, blazing with indignation. ‘Then …’ ‘Then, then and only then …’ ‘Only then will you be free …’ ‘Be free to return to us …’ ‘Return to us and rejoice …’ ‘Rejoice for true, complete again. Immaculate.’ Six go quiet, demands echoing after. Vesper’s feet touch floor again and she wraps herself around a comforting leg. In the Vagrant’s hand, the sword trembles, humming dangerously. He takes a deep breath. From the depths of his stomach something is forged, travelling inevitably, gaining force as it goes, following tubes behind ribs, up through the chest, into the throat, teeth parting, allowing it outside. The Vagrant opens his eyes, they are full of weariness, disgust, conviction. ‘No.

Who is that?” Ice formed in the room. No clothing could protect against the cold this demon brought with him. It pierced through every layer, snatching the breath from Hunt’s chest with clawed fingers. A shuddering inhale was the only sign of Bryce’s discomfort as she remained facing the circle on the other side of the room. The male now contained inside its dark border. “Aidas,” she said softly. Hunt had always imagined the Prince of the Chasm as similar to the lower-level demons he’d hunted over the centuries: scales or fangs or claws, brute muscle and snarling with blind animal rage. Not this slender, pale-skinned … pretty boy. Aidas’s blond hair fell to his shoulders in soft waves, loose, yet well cut around his fine-boned face. Undoubtedly to show off the eyes like blue opals, framed by thick, golden lashes. Those lashes bobbed once in a cursory blink. Then his full, sensuous mouth parted in a smile to reveal a row of too-white teeth. “Bryce Quinlan.” Hunt’s hand drifted to his gun. The Prince of the Chasm knew her name—her face. And the way he’d spoken her name was as much greeting as it was question, his voice velvet-soft. Aidas occupied the fifth level of Hel—the Chasm. He yielded only to two others: the Prince of the Abyss, and the Prince of the Pit, the seventh and mightiest of the demon princes. The Star-Eater himself, whose name was never uttered on this side of the Northern Rift.

Press “Body sheet 1” and take a screenshot (If your Oc has a tail or is holding something, also take a screenshot of “Body sheet 2”); Go to Ibis Paint X; Separate all of the body parts into different layers, then press “Save layer as transparent PNG” on all of them; Now go to “Cute Cut”; Press the plus (+) symbol in the top left; Tap “Create”; Select the same neon green I showed you earlier as the background colour; Choose “Done”; Tap another plus (+) symbol; Select “Photo” and click the hair screenshot; Tap the plus underneath and again press “Photo”; Now select the body screenshot; Keep on doing this until you have the whole Oc done; Double tap the hair screenshot and position it; Do this with the rest of the body parts until the Oc looks good;

The layers of his gleaming black hair were thick and neatly cut, and his tanned face glowed from a precise shave. He had a long, straight nose and a voluptuary's mouth. And he had a pair of remarkable blue eyes that approximated no other shade she had ever seen. Except, perhaps, at the shop where the local chemist made batches of ink by boiling Indigofera plants and copper sulfate together for days until they formed a blue so dark and deep that it approached violet. And yet his eyes did not have the angelic quality one might associate with such a color. They were shrewd, seasoned, as if he had gazed far too often at an unsavory side of life that she herself had never seen.

I started in our neighborhood, buying a pastrami burrito at Oki Dog and a deluxe gardenburger at Astro Burger and matzoh-ball soup at Greenblatt's and some greasy egg rolls at the Formosa. In part funny, and rigid, and sleepy, and angry. People. Then I made concentric circles outward, reaching first to Canter's and Pink's, then rippling farther, tofu at Yabu and mole at Alegria and sugok at Marouch; the sweet-corn salad at Casbah in Silver Lake and Rae's charbroiled burgers on Pico and the garlicky hummus at Carousel in Glendale. I ate an enormous range of food, and mood. Many favorites showed up- families who had traveled far and whose dishes were steeped with the trials of passageways. An Iranian cafe near Ohio and Westwood had such a rich grief in the lamb shank that I could eat it all without doing any of my tricks- side of the mouth, ingredient tracking, fast-chew and swallow. Being there was like having a good cry, the clearing of the air after weight has been held. I asked the waiter if I could thank the chef, and he led me to the back, where a very ordinary-looking woman with gray hair in a practical layered cut tossed translucent onions in a fry pan and shook my hand. Her face was steady, faintly sweaty from the warmth of the kitchen. Glad you liked it, she said, as she added a pinch of saffron to the pan. Old family recipe, she said. No trembling in her voice, no tears streaking down her face.

Christopher. It seemed the entire world stopped. Beatrix tried to compare the man standing before her with the cavalier rake he had once been. But it seemed impossible that he could be the same person. No longer a god descending from Olympus... now a warrior hardened by bitter experience. His complexion was a deep mixture of gold and copper, as if he had been slowly steeped in sun. The dark wheaten locks of his hair had been cut in efficiently short layers. His face was impassive, but something volatile was contained in the stillness. How bleak he looked. How alone. She wanted to run to him. She wanted to touch him. The effort of standing motionless caused her muscles to tremble in protest. She heard herself speak in a voice that wasn't quite steady. "Welcome home, Captain Phelan." He was silent, staring at her without apparent recognition. Dear Lord, those eyes... frost and fire, his gaze burning through her awareness. "I'm Beatrix Hathaway," she managed to say. "My family-" "I remember you." The rough velvet of his voice was a pleasure-stroke against her ears. Fascinated, bewildered, Beatrix stared at his guarded face. To Christopher Phelan, she was a stranger. But the memories of his letters were between them, even if he wasn't aware of it.