Luneshale Pass fifty-first

When some time away from the finishing golden touch of preparation had been granted, Inji had reapproached the sands not as a girl, but as a woman; a harlot, an escort, a fellahin. Along her eyes is a dusting of blackened silt in place of kohl, a feather situated neatly in the dove-gray bristles of the fur along her nape. She all but saunters among the crowd, a gentle smile curling at her pretty lips, and with hooded eyes does she search for Khusobek — while not her husband, he held her warmth, rather obliviously.
And in her mind, she rehearses the song and dance of her homeland that seemed to fit such grand circumstances. If she were lucky, she would be granted due opportunity later on;
But for now, she is quiet as she shoulders the other fellahin, eyeing the pretty blonde stranger. Was she new?