Amara was waiting beside the eastern windows when Arik entered the reception salon, standing with her back to the room while morning light caught along the silver embroidery of her dark blue dress.
For a moment, the sight of her was almost exactly what memory expected.
Her white hair had been gathered into a thick braid that rested over one shoulder and reached nearly to her waist, while deep lines marked a face that had aged far more severely than it should have. The damage to her channels had cost her years long before the Gate closed, and the poison had continued taking from her afterward, leaving her looking well beyond ninety despite not having reached it yet.
What had changed was the way she stood.
No cane waited beside her. No physician hovered near her elbow, and there was none of the careful distribution of weight Arik remembered from Wrohan, when even crossing a room had required calculation.
She turned when the door closed behind him.
Her clear blue eyes widened.
