She still didn’t quite get why but was too exhausted to argue. The reasoning (courtesy of Anat and Nico) seemed mainly based on the fact that this was her native country and language. She’d been tempted to balk, but a look from Declan settled it. They were spread around the kitchen table, with her at the head. Everyone’s attention was focused intently on Sophie, making her feel like she was under a microscope, or worse, onstage. She’d never liked performing; during the kindergarten school play she’d spent her five minutes in an egg costume sobbing out of fear and embarrassment. Clearing her throat self-consciously, Sophie flipped through the book. The entries were recorded in a smooth cursive, all the words exhibiting an identical slant. It made her feel slightly ashamed of her own barely legible handwriting. The author was obviously female, and probably older. The first entry was dated January 1st, so she probably started a new journal every year. Sophie pictured someone like her grandma, who had worn her long gray hair in a braid down her back and had bifocals dangling from a chain around her neck.
