Her brown curls were pulled tight in a severe chignon. It did not matter that he wore the cloth; something was wrong with him. She warmed to him fast, her anger was much harder to carry than the pleasant everyday neutrality of affection. Hang it, there must be something about her that will give it away. She would flee to the wild fastnesses, the places where there were no overarching systems of any use, where she could blend with the unstable populace and kill in relative peace. Blood dripped down one side of her forehead.
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