At the time of her numbers dream, she was angry, believing that her
father had replaced her with a young wife. She hadn’t spoken to him for
five months. But Georgina had insisted on calling Cyrus. They needed his
help. “You’re his child too,” Georgina reminded her. Kate remembered
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herself as a skinny, shrunken, terrified, shaking, bleeding mess when Cyrus
walked in that night. Unlike her mother, whose face was a movie screen of
her emotions, her father, a Persian aristocrat, habitually wore a mask of
impenetrable reserve. He sat down beside her and took her cold, shaking
hands in his warm ones. He made no mention that she’d cut him off for
five months, and if he noticed her bloody scalp, he didn’t comment.
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