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Trista was not exactly thin enough to squeeze through the iron bars of St. Julian’s several-acres-long fence, but she could make herself thin enough. She concentrated on her true body beneath the glamor of Triss-skin and Triss-hair and Triss-bones; made herself feel the cloth doll she was, so eminently compressible, made to be shoved into drawers and chests.
oh, this was such a wonderful read. the story got exactly the feel of the original book, the way it's angry and angular and made of sharp edges and uncomfortable truths. i love trista still needing pieces of her loved ones to eat, i loved the whole not-quite-love-triangle between trista, triss and pen, with its jealousy and yearning and desire and earnest, heartfelt love. the Beside interlude was hella creepy and just that side of perfect, and the resolution to the whole thing - scary, awkward, hopeful, imperfect - it just suit so well. every word and image and description exactly in its place, nothing to add or subtract, perfection.