“ Hey, I’m not that old. Don’t make it sound like the end of the world now. What are you, eight or somethin’?.”
;⚜—ℒ⊱
“ Funny, but no. I’m twelve.“
She scowls softly and curls her fingers around the book she’d previously been engrossed in, tilting her head as she examines the odd man with clothes too foreign, too modern for her comfort. He had come in through something he’d called a tear, and while she didn’t fully understand the principle behind it, she was quite bewitched by the concept of the rip between the two universes that allowed him to move freely to her world from his own. Rosalind was, in a word, infatu- ated by the explanation he’d provided her–and while he himself was hardly a fascinating man, she was still determined to milk him dry for answers all night.
“ So where are you from… er, Mr. DeWitt, wasn’t that it? And I do mean originally, don’t feed me some rubbish about your other universe.“
