I know it was childish, but the first thought to cross my mind after their identities sank in was how unfair my life was. Batsheva had been a dumpy, chubby woman with fake, dark blonde hair and weak blue eyes, face lined with those creases around her lips that made lipstick bleed.

And Celeste? Yeah, horse-faced was my best description for the traitor the last time I'd seen her, the braid a thick weave of brown and threads of gray, reminding me of an equine tail.

How ...