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"You're sweet, Roslin," her girlcousins said, with the expression one would give a loyal hound: endeared and pitying. Roslin cried sometimes, when the oldest dogs disappeared. The kindest of her cousins comforted her with explanations of "perhaps they've wandered off," as if she'd not seen the offal the river spat onto it's banks.
Ugliness was unavoidable at the Twins. Yet Roslin couldn't accustom herself to it, her father's indifference and her relations' pettiness a constant weight. She learned to take refuge in the details: the currents of the Trident, the birds flying past the Water Tower, voices in another room.