Eleanor's face pales. "It's a compliment! A compliment. You aren't old. You're beautiful."
I narrow my eyes at Eleanor, scrutinizing her nervous expression. She looks sincere enough. No matter how hard I stare at her, she just looks like a weak little rabbit who's wandered into a den of wolves.
Could be wrong, though. Lucas will probably have something to say about this.
Is she saying beautiful people can't be old? Grimoire sounds positively affronted, his voice ringing with indignation. I've existed for ages, and I'm gorgeous.
His ego shouldn't surprise me anymore, but sometimes it does. Like right now.
You can't be beautiful. You're a book most of the time.
I ignore their bickering, focusing instead on the woman's journal in my hands. My fingers tap against its worn cover. "Why do you think I'm the Crone? Of all people, why me?"
