Robin ignored Mina and walked toward the girl who sat so gracefully among the rabble that surrounded her. She was aware of every sensation: The beat of her heart, the way the rough woolen dress pulled at every inch of her skin, the fall of the braid down the middle of her back, even the very air that entered her lungs seemed to flow like silk. Caught up in the grand scope of her feeling, Robin suddenly realized she was standing in front of the girl, who was staring right at her. No, not at her. Through her, indexing her, burying her eyes into her like she was looking at a painting she might never see again. It was intoxicating and off-putting, all at once.