“Does my face look all right?” she found herself asking Ayla. Ayla raised her eyebrows. “What do you mean, all right?” “I don’t know,” Crier muttered. “Never mind. It was a foolish thing to ask.” She felt Ayla’s eyes on her and refused to look up. She stared at her own hands in her lap, light brown against the midnight black of her dress. “It does,” said Ayla almost begrudgingly. “Look all right, I mean.”
