If she realizes that I am watching her, she gives no sign. She continues only, reading the same old book, which she reads every night and yet never seems to finish. The same silver-rimmed glasses half-hide her eyes, now and then being met with an impatient finger as they continue their slow, perpetual journey down the slope of her nose. For the first time I perceive that the delicate stems that hook behind her ears are a pale green jade. The slight glow I'd always attributed to reflected firelight is still present, though the fire has long dwindled to ember. Unusual glasses, indeed. Why does she wear them? I am almost sure her eyes are better than mine. She spied our pursuers long before I did, and I'd always considered myself a proficient huntsman.

Her hair, I saw that first morning, was not the inky black it previously seemed when she slunk into my cell. Instead, it was so dark a red as to seem black, to the casual observer, but if one chanced to look for longer than a glance, it was obviously much richer than that, overlaid with a rich dark ruby, like touches of flame on charcoal, much like the glowing embers lying between us, smoldering.

I had never been so close to her before. Her face was flawless in its imperfection, one almond-shaped brown eye slightly lighter than the other, a tiny mole at the corner, freckles dusting the cheekbones. It was the face of a marble goddess, turned human and brought to life. Even the tiny crinkles at the corners of her eyes hinted at a fierce sense of humor, mortal touches no goddess could know. Perfection was too chill, had none of this warmth. I mourned that none of my creations ever held such beauty, perfect in symmetry and utterly inhuman.

I roll over and look again at this hand she has made for me, similar enough to flesh that none but she and I know that it is not. She and I and the man who took the original, whose place it now occupies. It looks and feels like living flesh, though it seems more durable, the fingernails less ragged than my other hand, with less rubbed-in dirt from traveling. It too has the same faint rainbowy aura as all her paintings, invisible under a direct gaze, but easy enough to spot if you know what to look for, how to glance for it out of the corner of your eye. When she is angry or upset it seems to flare like the sun.

Which is how I know now that the calm, studious attitude every line of her body projects is a lie. She is furious, either at me or herself, I do not know. The hand tells me nothing intelligble, just a taste of tangled emotions like black stinging nettle and crimson heart's blood.