This is what it's all about.
When I hold baby Della in my arms, the world crystallizes, becoming less a random disjointed modern art mixed media collage and more of a panting by Da Vinci.
Daji perches on the edge of the bed, drinking in the scene. "How was it?"
"She didn't have much to say for herself," I reply. "It looks like she fled with the contents of her vault from Kur."
Daji wrinkles her nose. "Just treasures?"
I shrug. "She insisted on paying for the room, so she brought gold."
"I get that, of course. But no mementoes?"
"Maybe they were in the other room, or maybe her treasures are her mementoes," I reply. "I know next to nothing about her, despite those encounters that were about as fun as a tax audit. And I didn't get a chance to question her further."
Daji sighs. "Believe it or not, I'm not unsympathetic to her ... in spite of everything that she's done. She's no victim--"
"And unapologetic, unlike Wendigo Will and Damon."
