She stood about five foot eight, with long, almost gangly limbs and the sort of curves that get lost in anything shapeless. Her stick-straight brown hair fell to her shoulders, failing to conceal her dully-pointed ears. She had the sort of pointed face that doesn’t get called “pretty,” even on a kid. “Striking,” maybe, or “dramatic,” but never pretty. Her eyes were beautiful, though, large and bright, with gray irises so pale they seemed to echo the colors around them. I knew those features pretty well. After all, I saw them in the mirror every morning. It was like looking at a photograph, only this photograph was answering my open-mouthed shock with a smirk and a tip of an imaginary hat.
The Fetchingly sweet smell of burnt sugar and ashes, like a bonfire on the carnival midway. Have your ticket ready at the door.
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