"Who are you?"
Brianna had barely taken two steps into the hall when a floor tile spoke to her.
She looked down and saw, in the faint, winding patterns of a marble tile ahead, the vague outline of a half-turned human face.
The face formed by the patterns was like a cloud on the verge of being blown apart by the wind; with the slightest shift in its light and dark shades or a subtle unfurling of its lines, it would no longer look like a face at all.
How strange. In that moment, a distant, distinctly human, distinctly female concern surfaced in Brianna's mind—Jacqueline was wearing a skirt.
She took half a step back.
As she retreated, she almost felt as if she had never changed, as if she were still just a young woman.
The feeling was wonderful, but it vanished in an instant.
