Cenotaph
an excerpt

Seven years. Her father and mother had died seven years ago this season. Their faces, never painted or sketched, were growing foggy in her mind, her mother’s especially. To see echoes of her father’s, all she had to do was look in a mirror: there was the long face, the pointed chin, the deep-set eyes, the wavy black hair. She really wondered if she was her mother’s daughter at all, with how much she resembled Myrren. In her months in jail, she had had no mirrors, and when she had finally escaped and had the opportunity to look herself in the eyes again, she was shocked by how much her current gauntness emphasized his features. She even looked masculine enough to pass as his son, or, if she was twenty or twenty-five years older, his twin.