Of course, the Capital had not changed. It was Ari who had changed, who in her eleven years had already become older and wiser than many had the burden to be at any age. The brown shingles still gleamed in the sun and the cobblestones still felt smooth and pure beneath her feet, but she saw new things, she saw more. It was a movement of minds, of arms, of business that now passed before her watchful eyes. It may not have been magic, but it was still knowledge, and it was still secrets. A Memory of Light