"The work wouldn't permit me to look at it in detail," she says, one hand unwrapping from the mug at last, her fingers reaching up to trace the healed lines of her incision in an unthinking, idle gesture. "Not without...I will not bore you by rehashing details of which you are aware. But I remember red hair. Lots of it, curls, and an expression like..."

A cold spike lances through her, an echo of the icewater terror she'd felt then, staring at a portrait she hadn't recognized but that frightened her on a level deeper than nearly anything she'd ever known. She represses a shudder, taking another sip of her tea. It's gone nearly cold, but she swallows a mouthful of it anyway. "Like her one goal in life was to snap my unworthy neck."