Beside her stood her daughter.
The girl was small for her age, nine years old, with a narrow face, clear brown eyes, and dark curls pulled back with a faded blue ribbon. Her backpack looked old but clean. A paperback book rested under one arm, its corners softened by use. She seemed too calm for a child standing in a room designed to overwhelm adults.
This was Maris Pike.
Dorian glanced at her and immediately noticed what unsettled him most.
She was not afraid.
Lenora lowered her eyes. “Good afternoon, Mr. Voss. We’ll work around the table first and then the office area if that’s all right.”
Instead of answering, Dorian lifted the manuscript from his desk and walked toward the center of the room.
“I have something more interesting than dust today,” he said.
Lenora’s hands tightened around the cart handle. “Sir?”
“I hear your daughter is unusually gifted,” he said, now looking directly at Maris. “A little prodigy, is that right?”
