Lost Creek Hollow cuate

his voice — his voice; she rolled to face him, and the butterflies winged away before her opening lids and they revealed — oh, crowfeather! his golden eyes, his túnica de sombra; her heart rose in pain and anger and a deep abrading love that almost stole her breath. "hola, crowfeather." her voice trained into musical lightness; her figure rolling to her feet as if she felt nothing, automaton, rote. "you look so well."