“What you could not,” she said. There was no hint of accusation in her words, only her own fierce brand of love. She gave me the bloody rag and pulled the necklace off over her head. She was Enanatuma once more, but the injury remained.
“It’s not serious, sister,” I said, for the bleeding had already stopped. “It will heal.”
“It will leave a scar,” Enanatuma said. “A scar on my face, not Shulgi’s.”
We must cut him. And yet I couldn’t bring myself to say the words aloud. Even if we gave him the scar he lacked, how to explain Enanatuma’s? More magic, more illusions?
Ten years had taught me nothing; I was still spreading oil fire even as I tried to douse it.
Shulgi lifted his head from his hands. Enanatuma stood over him, her gis-gis-la dagger in her hand. Her thoughts had followed mine,
