Holgren’s blood doll was barely more than a scarecrow. He’d given it the merest suggestion of a face, a long hank of hair, and a dark robe. The one he made for me was a bit more. Its short, brown hair was artfully if simply arranged, and its face was free of any scar or blemish. The nose was long and straight, the almond-shaped, green eyes perfectly balanced. My own thin lips were fuller on that face, and I would have needed cosmetics to get them as red as he made them. I fingered my oft-broken nose and wondered if he were mocking me or if this was how he really saw me.
