[/html]She saw her sister's gestures from the corner of her eyes and each invisible scar Myrika traced brough forth forced away memories and phantom touches. She watched and her body tensed, but she did not look away and she did not shudder. The mark on her face she forgot about frequently as she did not have to look upon it often, and she did not remember much of the moments leading up to it, or after. Unwittingly, Cassandra lifted her hand to slowly trace the rough, uneven tissue on her face where fur would never grow back. "A fall," she muttered, then dropped her hand. That's all, she wanted to add, but could not. That wasn't all, but there was too much else.
The albino woman wanted very much to lie just then, invent some tall and impressive tale of daring and adventure, some story that was boisterous and entertaining and which would make her sister laugh and ease some of the terrible tension between them. It should have been easy to lie; she had lied so many times now to so many others. Pretending was easier. And happier. And couldn't they both use some of both?
"One of the arrows that killed Lady, I think," Cassandra said after a long pause, pointing at one of the two thin lines across her right arm. "Some bandits or thieves or traders, I don't know," she lied. She knew exactly what they'd been. She did not look at Myrika and did not say anything about the other scar on the same arm. Shifting her weight slightly, she gestured to her bandaged shoulder. "Some asshole a few nights ago," her voice here was strong at first, defiant almost, but shrank back again. "Inferni needn't worry though; he won't follow me here." Or anyone, anywhere, ever again. Should have brought his skull as an offering, she wanted to add. But then she'd fit right in, wouldn't she? "They're nothing," she said of her collective scars. Liar. And she knew, already, that Myrika would not believe her. She had no silver tongue for her sister.
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