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From Scrivener's Moon

"No!" he shouted. They both shouted it, him and the girl in the mirror, but the only voice he heard was hers. "I am Auric Godshawk! I am Godshawk!"

But he wasn't. Godshawk had died a long time ago. What remained of him was just a ghost inhabiting the mind of this thin girl, his granddaughter. Her name, he suddenly recalled, was Fever Crumb.

And once he knew that, he could not stay. These thin young hands were not his hands these eyes were not his eyes this world was not his world anymore. With a terrible sadness he let himself be folded down, like an immense and wonderful map being crumpled into an impossibly small ball, and packed away into the tiny machine that he had once planted, like a silver seed, among the roots of Fever's brain.

With his last thought as he left her, he wondered what had brought her here alone into the north-country with an arrow through her.