I've always been told I look like my mother and now I see it. Her own blonde hair is darker, but her face shape, the tilt of her eyes and the width of her mouth are all mine. I cross slowly to where she stands, glancing out at the balcony. "You could have used the door."

She smiles, touches my cheek with one hand. "I've grown so used to the sly ways of wolves," she says, "it seems odd to do anything so direct."

"I'm just glad ...