"I think it's grown."
Violet reached over, twisted a lock of Trista's hair around her finger, and frowned, concentrating.
"It must have grown," Trista insisted.
She wore different clothes now, plain and cheap clothes that the Crescents would never have tolerated. Violet was always mending them. Trista watched her do it, thinking of being mended that way herself; almost she envied the clothes.
Violet said, "There's time." She moved her hand to Trista's shoulder. "We have time."
Trista felt warm and awkward. There was time, and she was growing – growing into the person she was, and Violet was with her.