RowanI was in the studio at nine.She was already there, which I’d expected, setting up with the focused efficiency she brought to everything she did with her hands. The room smelled like ink and something else, cedar maybe, her scent underneath all of it.I sat in the chair she pointed at without being told twice.She pulled a stool close, sat, took my arm without ceremony, pushed the sleeve up to the elbow. Her hands were cool against my skin, steady, the grip of someone who knew exactly what they were doing and didn’t need to think about it.I looked at the ceiling.“Stay still.” She said.“I am still.”“You’re about to not be. People tense before they realize they’re tensing.” She was examining the wolf on my wrist, turning my arm slightly in the light. “How long ago.”“Twelve years.”“It’s held well.” She said it like a professional assessment, nothing personal in it. “The lines are clean, the ink hasn’t spread too badly.” She reached for something on the table behind her. “I’m
Ler mais