They pull the bag away, and Cehrazad blinks in the sudden light. She dropped Dunyazad’s mask on the way here, in fear and resignation: she was caught, and would hide behind no face but her own.
“This isn’t her,” grunts someone in surprise.
“What?” A head wearing an ornate full mask blocks the light. “What’s your name, girl?”
“Cehrazad,” she manages, “of House Loong.”
Silence. Then: “You were wearing your sister’s face.”
This time Cehrazad is the silent one.
“Get her an underface,” grumbles her captor, and when he turns in profile his mask is like a great and cruel bird.