The color of his eyes had not changed, neither their depth nor their focus; his voice was as relaxed and nasal as the first time he spoke to her in the library. But he was looking through his eyes now, not with them: panes of stonewashed stained glass, and she said, dead-end recognition, Menachem. Something like ice and brandy sunfished up into her throat, sluice and burn past her heart; she put it from her, as she had weeks ago put away her surprise...