Finally she leaned close, her green-stained eyes shining, and she said something in Pithian and cackled. “Ahh. What was that?” I asked, smiling. A silver-haired medikker nearby rolled his eyes and said, “She said your face is so pretty, but she is worried it is like a small horse.” “What? She said what now?” “It is a local expression, and a depraved one at that—she means, she is worried she might crush it while riding it.”
