Guilt pricked me all over like thorns. She was right; I had done this, and now none of us would ever see Bogatyr Ivan again. That story would be like all the others that sat heavy in my belly like a handful of seeds, spoiling, unable to bloom. Biting my lip against the sting of tears, I went into the bathroom and locked the door. There was the porcelain tub, like a halved oyster, and the mirror that gleamed as brassily as a wet kopek. Slowly I unbuttoned my gown and let it puddle to the floor. The mirror seemed to look at me narrow-eyed, and my reflection rippled like water near to boiling.
Two many similies. Dear lord 😆
