Ondrakja chose her approach and her moment with care. A Vraszenian-style sash belt and shoulder-buttoned blouse like the girl’s, though less tattered—but not too fine, either. Finery in Lacewater usually meant an Upper Bank cuff come to play games among the river rats, or a madam. And though a few touches of makeup could shift her appearance more toward either Vraszenian or Liganti, she chose to leave her mixed ancestry on display. Under the grime, the girl had more than a hint of Liganti in her features; she might respond better to someone who looked like her.

How can you hide behind a small piece of silk and lace that barely covers a third of your face? But you have me in your pocket, you brought me here, and now you take me out and study me. Put me on, girl, you’ve nothing to lose. Let me touch your smooth brow; your wet, flushed cheeks. Tie that ribbon behind your head, let me become a part of you. It feels reassuring to wear me, doesn’t it?