Clara’s POVEleanor Vane chose lunch.Eleanor Vane was already at the table when I got there.She was not what I’d built, that was the first thing, I’d built someone colder, Someone with the specific sharpness of a woman who’d converted grief entirely into function. What I found instead was a woman in her early fifties with Gabriel’s eyes, dark, patient, already reading me before I’d cleared the doorway and a quality of stillness that wasn’t cold so much as concentrated.She stood when I approached.That surprised me.“Ms. Sterling,” she said.“Mrs. Vane,” I said.We shook hands, her grip was firm and brief and told me nothing except that she’d learned, somewhere, not to give things away through touch.We sat.She didn’t start with me.She started with the menu, which she studied with the focused attention of someone who was also using the time to let me settle, or to let me think I was settling, which was different, I placed my order, so did she, The waiter left.Then she looked at m
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