He thinks I am my mother. I hear it in his voice. I feel it in the way he fingers my hair. Her hair.
I know I look like her. We have the same blue eyes, the same thick flaxen hair. It was comforting, after she died. Looking in the mirror was almost like looking at her.
Now, I hate it. I hate the way his eyes follow me, undress me. I hate the quaver in his councilors voices, insistent, but not insistent enough…[more]