I first noticed Eleanor's decline during our weekly family breakfast, but it wasn't just her physical symptoms that caught my attention—it was the way the silver energy inside me responded to her pain. Every time she moved, every careful gesture she made to hide her discomfort, I felt an answering pulse of power that seemed to recognize suffering and want to heal it.
She was trying to hide it, of course—ninety-three years of aristocratic training had taught her never to show weakness in front of others. But I could see the way her hands trembled slightly when she lifted her teacup, the careful way she moved to avoid putting weight on her left leg, and most telling of all, the shadow of pain that flickered across her sharp gray eyes when she thought no one was looking.
