In some ways it began when I heard her singingher voice twinning with my ownHer Voice was like a portrait of her soulWild as a fire, sharp as a shattered glass Sweet and clean as clover

For all that she lacked your fire.

If she was beautiful at rest she was doubly so awake. Asleep she was a painting of a fire. Awake she was the fire itself.

Bast looked at him incredulously."The whole world is burning down,"he said."Open your eyes.

Asleep she was a painting of a fire. Awake she was the fire itself