Her fingers were long and skillful. (Her fingers, she kept reminding herself; her fingers, her hair, her voice). She had always had a gift for woodcraft, from simple toys and ornaments to elaborate dolls and puppets. Paragon would be her master work, even if the true identity of his artist might never be known.
With infinitely gentle fingertips she brushed back his hair, traced the line of his lips. Despite the scarred forehead and broken nose, his face seemed as youthful and beautiful to her as ever.
“You love him still,” Paragon murmured.
Amber smiled. “I always will.”