Chapter 8
The old lady was remarkable, an artist’s gift, if Nell could have managed a sketch while that cool, dark gaze scorched over her. The eyes were so like—yet also very not like—her dad’s. No question where he’d gotten his looks. She still had the bones, the bearing. There were lines etched in the face and the hair had gone gray without obvious interference. She sat ramrod straight in the chair, both gnarled hands resting on the impressive head of finely crafted cane. If Nell had seen her, instead of St Cyr, she’d have known from whence her DNA hailed.
Unlike her husband, she didn’t call up vegetable images. Nell might have mulled trees, tall, stately ones with creepy twists, but she didn’t dare blink, let alone mull anything. If looks could kill, grandma would have managed it. Ale
