‘She’s terrified. “Your father is dead too, I believe,” he continued, “and your mother. Blueskin might have butchered you and your brat before I'd have lifted a finger to prevent him, if it hadn't suited my purposes to do so, and he hadn't incurred my displeasure. “I want to be your friend,” he said. He dissected rather awkwardly and hurriedly, but, on the whole, effectively, and drew with an impatient directness that made up in significance what it lacked in precision. Or he would find something—a wave in her hair, a little line in the contour of her brow or neck, that made an exquisite discovery.
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