Cellie's POV
Demetrio had come to my apartment two nights ago and told me half the truth.
I know that now, standing in front of Georgiana's mirror in the turquoise dress, watching her reflection over my shoulder while I work the last pin into her updo. The mirror is the tall kind, freestanding, with a slight warmth in the glass that made everything reflected in it look a degree more alive than it was. He had sat at my kitchen table and told me the Russian situation went back to his father's era, that there was a blood grievance involving a child, that the daughter for a daughter threat was real and connected to history he was still piecing together. He had been careful and specific and honest in the way he was when he had made a decision about what information a conversation could hold — choosing his words the way he chose everything, with precision and intent.
