Her sister's arms around her.
The specific, full-body impact of a hug from someone who has been surviving and has just arrived at the person they were surviving toward. Evriana's arms came up — automatic, immediate, no decision — and held her sister against her with the specific, tight grip of someone who is confirming a fact.
"'You're here,'" she said. Into her sister's hair.
"'I'm here,'" Celia said. Her voice muffled. She sounded — different. Something in the register of it. The specific, changed quality of someone who had been somewhere.
She pulled back.
Looked at her sister's face.
Then looked at him.
"'Did you—'" She stopped. Looked at Celia. At her state. At the ruined clothes and the specific, complicated expression she was carrying. "'Did you do something to her,'" she said.
He looked at her.
"'Do you really think,'" he said, "'that I would touch her knowing what it would mean to you?'"
