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She stomped her foot, berating herself in meaner, more foul terms than any Radu had ever heard. Mehmed could not understand what she was saying, could not hear the hatred and recrimination Lada spat out on her own head. Radu could, though, and he wondered when his sister had decided that nothing less than perfection was acceptable.
She felt it, like a curdled meal threatening to come back up out of her stomach: the knowledge that she could never be their equal. She would always be separate.
There was something claustrophobic about breasts.
Perhaps if she had more women in her life, she would not feel so outraged at the physical and social demands of being one.
RADU HAD NEVER IMAGINED how deeply lonely being well liked would be.
