12
The bruise was fading, the swelling nearly gone. Netty had not seen her reflection in a real mirror until she had taken a room in the hotel. Her mother had used the river, a reflection off a platter, or a shiny bit of brass on a saddle, they had never owned a mirrored piece of glass.
She turned, admiring her naked body. She was thin but soft in the right places it seemed. Despite the harsh environment she had been raised in, her skin was bone china white in most places. She had burned her neck and hands traveling for lack of a proper hat and gloves, but the pink tint was fading. Her hair was golden, unusual in this part of the world, everyone here was dark; skin, eyes and hair all the color of brown paper and oil cloth.
Her bright blue eyes were set off by the red drapes behind her
