This was not Chiyo.
The woman standing before him was the runaway princess.
The younger sister of the dead queen.
Ayame.
For a long moment, Nathan said nothing. He only looked at her, as though silence itself might force the truth into some other shape. But it did not. The more he studied her, the more impossible it became to deny. The resemblance was there, undeniable now that he had seen it properly—not only in the line of her face, but in the composure she wore like a second skin. There was breeding in it, restraint, the kind of refinement no false name could bury completely.
