"Am I doing the right thing?" Darwel asked as she looked in the mirror. She thought she looked a little different.
"What do you think, Lady Darwel?" said Sevill as she combed the El Sif's cherry-colored hair. She was the only one Darwel would trust with her hair. Not even her other personal guard, Viccil, was allowed to touch it.
Darwel had just finished washing up and oiling her body following her talk with her parents. She was dressed in a soft, silk, silver night dress that limned her body, tracing its shape with such perfection that she almost looked like a mercury idol from the chest down. Darwel was admiring her own shape in the mirror. It seemed so foreign, so curvaceous that she might have been sculpted after the meandering of a thin river.
