A scroll had sat half unfurled across her lap. Her short-sleeved linen shift was well made but plain for the Peacock governor’s only daughter, her black hair in a clean, glossy braid that hadn’t yet frayed and dulled with fever sweat.
The girl had been sitting up on her pallet when Fie walked into the quarantine hut, dark eyes imperious, mouth set in a stiff bar like the one sealing the door from the outside. No, the sticking point now was the sinner girl.
Too many lives had ended on the edge of her steel since then to pretend that didn’t hold a speck of truth. Tavin had told her last moon that killing never ought to get easier, but that it did anyway. It wasn’t the act itself in the three weeks since taking charge of her band of Crows, Fie had dealt mercy more than a handful of times. Fie was taking too long to cut the girl’s throat.
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