Chapter Ten
Mircalla’s lips had been cold against my neck—so cold—even her breath had been a soft winter’s breeze, raising goose pimples along my flesh.
“People are staring at us, Mircalla.”
What had I been so afraid of? So what if they saw? Would I have been just as afraid if she had been a boy, or was it precisely her femaleness that frightened me? Her long, red hair, her acrylic nails, her rose perfume—she wore so much perfume. So much, like a corpse that had been bathed in it to chase away the stench of decay.
What if they saw us? What if they misinterpreted our kiss for a show? An invitation? What if we offended them? Bad things happened to girls who dared to present themselves offensively in public. They would ask: Why had you been wearing that? Why had you been kissing her? Why
