Syllana’s body was an exquisite work of art. Toned, tall, thin. Her eyes, green as a glacier-fed lake, mesmerized even in death. And I couldn’t touch the tips of her fingers without shivering with need. Nature had made a work of this woman, and the back alleys of Skara Brae had undone her from the neck, down her supple back, down again to the vital ropes some surgeons called the greater and lesser intestines.
“She a cold one,” Oda said, running her deformed fingers over Syllana.
“How many times have I told you to keep your fingers off my projects?” Yes, that’s what I said to Oda. But I couldn’t stand her. I wanted to cut her throat her in the under-tomb where we did darker works, but I felt sorry for her. She was kicked out of her village once she came of age. I came upon her as…
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