When she got back to the bridge, Myril was just waking up. Thorat slept with one arm over Iola. Her face was placid as she dreamed, probably of dragons and priestesses.
“Your hair!” Myril said as she sat up.
“I went to the weavers for dye again and look!” Darna wailed. “This is what they did to me!”
“But it’s beautiful,” Myril said. “It’s really… I think it’s beautiful.”
“But you’ve seen it before,” Darna said, more quietly.
Myril shook her head. “No, not like this. It was matted and full of leaves and twigs and dusty. Now it’s like fire.”
Darna hid her face in her hands. “What will I do? You were the only one here in Anamat who’d seen it, who really knew, or noticed, and now they’ll all know me.”
“There might be other girls with red hair,” Myril said.
“Not with red hair and a limp
