Aimee repeated, almost losing her usual perfect control. The doctor nodded. “I think so. Probably in early adolescence. It happens more commonly than you might think.” The doctor was a W.D., a Warlock Doctor, a.k.a. Warloctor. Very professional, she betrayed impatience only by adjusting her turban. Aimee could not decide whether the big, craggy woman was black or Lebanese or perhaps Hindu, but it didn’t matter. Nothing seemed to matter. Not even dieting. It was this apathy that had landed Aimee here, in this office with pink cabbage roses growing down from the ceiling. “Let’s have a look,” the Warloctor suggested gently. “If you’ll stand up, please, and face the mirror.” Aimee stood, automatically checking her appearance in the full-length mirror: flawless, as usual. Hair in the latest style, makeup worthy of a fashion model, silk blouse, Lauren suit accessorized to perfection, and most important of all, the sparkling diamond on her finger. Colin had bought her the biggest one she could possibly wear in good taste.
