Leila Begin's face blinked out and a tracery of grid-patterned streets inked themselves into the place she had been. I didn't need her any more. Her hair had been iridescent crimson, her throat choked with a steel collar and her eyes made up with startle lines, but it was the lines of the face below it all that stayed with me. The same lines faintly emergent in Victor Elliott's Kodakristal of his daughter. The understated but undeniable similarity.