It would have been vicious, would have filled Shesheshen with a dark admiration for Homily, if not for the look on her face. With her cheeks smudged by finger streaks of her sister’s blood, her eyes had woken up. They were frantic as a moth on fire, jumping around the tent, to the knife, to the flap out of the tent, and to Shesheshen. It was the look of a frightened animal, destined to run or strike again.
