"A rare soul that can claim a god's friendship."

It's more murmured than anything else. She wonders idly if the tadpoles, even dead as they must be, left psychic traces on her. If the way they wriggled and writhed behind her eyes left trails in their wake, feeding on things she'll never know to miss. If that had been so terribly obvious to this god's eyes. And then she wonders what else is obvious about her, to those who know how to see.

Her fingers twitch on her teacup involuntarily.