Silvertip Mountain holy holy

Eirlys shook her head mutely — and vehemently! — when the question was reflected back to her, her glacial gaze darting furtively toward Dalia. Though she had no logical reason to suspect this, she feared the other girl would be disgusted at the very thought. Eirlys was nine months old, and she realized as she flipped through her memories that she didn’t have a single friend.

Family was everything to the snowdrop, but in this case, they just didn’t count.

She added this flaw to the list, reasoning that it must be something wrong with her — when it came blame she was far from rational — and mumbled dumbly, “I’m Eirlys Dagny Fearghal.” She didn’t extend the offer to use Ceallach and Hemlock’s nickname for her, but only because she didn’t think either of the vastly more attractive and poised females would want to.

“What’s your name?” she asked of Olive. Her struggle to meet the woman’s eyes was visible: suddenly dark with dismay, her pleochroic eyes shifted between the woman’s twiggy forelimbs and eau-de-nil gaze erratically before settling with painful shyness on one snowy cheek.