Wren Goldwyn

Wren: "Face-to-face at last."

Her cool, breathy voice has the silken quality of amaretto. It's somehow perfect for her—as soon as I hear it I know instinctively it's the only voice she ever could have had.

Wren: "I'm Wren Goldwyn."

She gives me a dazzling smile, and in the warm glow from the house lights, I can feel my shutter finger twitch.

Rory: "...Wren?"

Wren: "Mhm! Like the songbird. Don't ask me to sing, though."

And, just like that, she finally has a name.