\"Ever thought about letting me do something with your hair?\" Not needing an answer, Shari got up and whipped out a vented brush from an overstuffed drawer. Knives were worse, especially when you were stabbed back and left traces of your own blood at the crime scene. It reminded her of one of the old tales her mother Marina had told her about a sculptor named Farhat. Her arms and feet were uncovered, and of almost skeleton thinness. ‘Or do I arrest you and have these soldiers march you off to gaol?’ A sweep of his arm indicated the array of military strength on the benches, every eye of which was trained on the little scene being enacted before them. “I am afraid,” he said gravely, “that your sister has been a little indiscreet.
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