““Margaret peered at her reflecion, moving the compact in a circle so she could see her entire face. She though she looked transparent as a baby crayfish in the Little Heart River. Maragret had never been a vain woman, one to consult each mirror she passed or smooth her hair as she caught her reflection in a storefront window. She simply wanted to make sure she was still there, still flesh and sweet blood and silver hair. There were days she was so light she couldn’t be sure. She felt herself floating beneath the covers, held down by sweat and three star quilts.””
