Barrow Fields Wore my language like an amaranth and brand on my tongue

When Rosalyn lifted her eyes to meet his, he drifted closer, on edge but curious. Even from that distance, even before she said a word, Ephraim could tell that she didn't recognize him for the young coywolf who taunted her on the beach, nor the one who ran into her directly after Drageda's departure. And he licked his narrow jaws, tempted to lie.

No, we've never met, he contemplated, you must be thinking of someone else. But for the same inexplicable reason he had called attention to himself, he acknowledged that, yes, we have. A lifetime ago. It had been two years since he last set eyes on Rosalyn, and a year since he'd choked his sick mother to death in the cool, blue light of the grotto. For Ephraim, so much had changed that he felt like he was living another life these days, and the only thread still tying him to the old one was the gilded one he'd connected to Raleska and her forgiveness.

Why did you come here, to the cliffs? If only to satisfy his personal curiosity, he had to know why a wolf like Rosalyn would make a home of a place that held nothing but bad memories for her.