"If not divine than what word would you use? Supernatural? Spiritual? Cosmic?" Mischa tilted her head. "Maybe no force guides the hand, but it still speaks to the heart attached. Something of us, perhaps, but separate. Something pure. I can't accept the notion that humanity exists alone here." She laughed suddenly, a happy, impulsive exhalation. "I won't accept it. It is too barren.
"What if the one look happens not at the moment of meeting but later? Say, at a time, a single, crystal beat in time, when you turn and see that person in an entirely different way? Wouldn't that be a sort of "first"? Like--like stepping into a room and seeing a genuine Rothko, instead of a magazine reprint?" Unconciously, Mischa smoothed a lock of hair behind her ear, fingers not-quite exposing the hearing aid. "Acceptance's never sounded like a very loving choice to me, it seems too much a concolation prize. As if the best that can be done with your weakest aspect is for it to be tolerated. Like allowing a sick cat into the parlor."
And wonderful, now she sounded like the typical "bitter child" specimen. Any minute next there'd be commentary about mother dearest not hugging enough or sibling rivalry anecdotes. The latter being all the sadder for never existing: Allegra had been entirely out of her league.
"I'm sorry," Mischa said. "I'm not making much sense or being at all amusing in the process." She tried a smile. It worked. "And I think my conversations with the divine would be sorely influenced by whether they were a client or had an outstanding bill. You can put a capitalist in a convent, but..."
They'd reached the foot of the stairs, and Mischa laughed again, slipping out of Cam's hold as if taking her turn in a waltz. "Why is it, Mr. Harper, that my conversations with you never go as scripted? I'm a very clever speaker normally. You, however, are a subversive element. Do stop, and take mercy on a poor working girl's only reputation."