Chapter 15
Fifteen
Staring at my reflection, I raise my hand slowly, watching myself move to confirm to myself that this really is me.
The person in the mirror is a stranger to me.
Mirrors are not easy to come by in the Gutter, and for one of the sullied it is almost impossible to find one, the small shard of glass I kept hidden showed my reflection, but it has been a long time since I have seen myself in full and clean.
This would be shocking enough, but the clean, well-dressed woman in my reflection cannot possibly be me.
Scrubbed clean, two quiet women wearing silver bands came in and applied oils to my hair, brushing and teasing out the knots.
It has always been difficult for me to tame my wild curls.
Somehow, they have managed to create smooth, loose curls that hang neatly around my face.
My hair is an unusual combination of pink hues and oranges, like a sunset on a clear evening, and cared for as it has been, the colour is unlike anything I have ever seen before.
It seems to shimmer and change shades as I shift my head.
The women then tried to paint my face with all manner of powders and potions, but I refused.
Make-up has never been something I have wanted, and I do not see the point in wearing it now and hiding who I am.
I already struggle to recognise myself; I am not going to cover my face and change myself completely.
However, I could put up with these. My biggest issue I am facing is with my outfit. Oh it is stunning and easily the nicest thing I have ever worn, but is made up of two components, which is where my problems lay.
A beautiful rich purple the colour amethyst, the fabric is smooth to the touch, so different to the rough, plain coloured fabrics most wear in the Gutter.
The trousers are made up of stiff embroidered fabric around the waist, with a light, almost gauzy material that blooms out around my legs.
It shifts and shimmers as I move, and is pulled in once more by embroidered cuffs around my ankles.
The top half of the outfit is the same rich colour, and the short cap sleeves allow for the wearers band to be seen.
The problem? The top ends around my midriff, just under my bust, which shows off the bottom of Kit’s mark on my left hip.
Overnight the mark on my back has faded to a dark brown.
The design is still unmistakeable as a dragon, but I suppose that if someone was just to see the bottom part from a distance, it could possibly pass as a birthmark?
What am I thinking. Someone is bound to notice and start questioning the mark.
Will anyone recognise it as a demon mark or just assume it’s a tattoo?
“Abbie, I cannot wear this.” Brushing my hands reluctantly down the fabric. I can hear her bustling around in the main room, and her footsteps sound closer as she moves to the bathroom where I wait.
“What is the problem-” She cuts off what she’s saying as she enters the room, her eyes widening and a smile pulling at her lips. “Oh you look beautiful.”
She seems genuinely pleased for me, and I cannot quite work out why. It might be her job to make sure I am dressed appropriately, but to find joy in it is different. It makes me wish that I could wear this today.
Uncomfortable at her praise, I look away and brush the fabric again, tugging subconsciously on the seam of the top. “Is there not anything a little more… covered up?”
Her expression shifts to one of understanding, her eyes flickering to my hip and the mark I am so concerned about.
She noticed it straight away, confirming my fears; it is obvious.
However, she doesn’t look shocked or horrified by it.
Taking my hand in hers, she squeezes it in a reassuring gesture.
My instincts are to pull away from her touch, but I make myself stay still, glancing up to examine her expression.
“Our old scars can make us want to cover up and hide from the outside world.” She speaks softly, but with authority.
It’s that sense of understanding that makes me continue to listen.
I could easily brush it off, how could anyone who lives here understand what I have been through?
There is a look that those who have suffered trauma carry, and right now, Abbie is letting me see hers.
Our trauma might not be the same, but she understands what it is like to rebuild yourself afterwards.
“You have had a hard life, and your scars are just proof that you have survived. You should not be ashamed of them. However, it is not a quick process to shift that mindset, that I know from experience.” She gives me a sad smile and squeezes my hand again.
“You will be pleased to know that there is more to this dress.”
She bustles out of the room, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
Scars, that is what she thinks the mark on my hip is.
Relief mingles with guilt. I’m glad that she didn’t know what it was, yet I feel bad for deceiving her when she’s shared snippets of her own difficult past. My body is littered with scars, so that is not a lie in itself, but I am letting her believe an assumption that she made.
Abbie’s figure fills the doorway, giving me the distraction I need from my thoughts. Arms loaded down with fabric, she places it down on the counter and shifts through. I have no idea how she can tell one garment from another.
“This goes around your waist,” handing me embroidered fabric that matches my trousers. She returns to fiddling with the other fabric on the counter.
Holding up the garment, I examine it closely.
It looks like a skirt, thick pleated fabric at the back and an opening at the front, allowing a glimpse of the glistening trousers beneath.
Wrapping it around my waist, I pull the front together and fix it in place.
It is a stunning combination and I did not realise until just now that the opening at the front is graduated, with the skirt being shorter at the front and long at the back where the pleats meet.
I twist in front of the mirror, admiring the silhouette it gives me.
Even better is that it covers much of the demon mark.
“Okay, keep still for a moment,” Abbie instructs.
Doing as I’m told, I watch her as she carefully attaches fabric to the back of my shoulders.
From what I can tell it is two swaths of soft, mostly see-through fabric, one on each shoulder that trail down and rest of the floor.
They are going to trail behind me when I walk, almost like a cloak.
It might be almost transparent but it offers me more cover and that helps to make me feel grounded.
Rearranging the fabric, Abbie looks up and takes in my reflection. “Beautiful,” she coos, that happy, content look returning to her face. I know that what I’m about to ask is going to make her uncomfortable and steal the smile from her lips.
Turning to face her, I meet her gaze. “Abbie. I want to see Ella.”
Her regretful expression tells me she has been dreading this, and I feel bad for making her be the messenger, but I cannot hold back my concern any longer. The king cannot be trusted and I must see her. In my gut I already know what the answer is going to be.
Her smile fades and the whole atmosphere in the room changes. “I have been given strict instructions that you cannot see her until after the ceremony.”
Despite knowing this would be the response, I am still flooded with disappointment. Is there a way I could convince her to help me? “I am dressed and ready. Can we not quickly see her before-”
No, this is not fair. I can see how uncomfortable she is, and how much she clearly wants to help me, and doing so will only get her into trouble. The king told me I could see Ella today and I am pushing my boundaries already. I just wish there was a way for me to know she’s okay.
“Kiara, I am sorry, I wish-” She seems upset that she is unable to help me, her face crumpling.
Holding back a sigh, I force a small smile. “No, I am sorry Abbie. Let’s go to the ceremony.”
This ceremony is still a mystery to me, yet everyone else seems to be in the know, meaning it cannot be anything too horrendous.
The quicker we get it over with, the faster I get to see Ella.
If I really wanted to, I could cause trouble, refusing to play along with their ceremony until they brought Ella to me.
However, I am pretty sure that will take longer than the whole ceremony.
Do as the king asked, play pretend in front of his friends and Ella will be returned to me.
Gathering the back of my skirt, I shuffle from the bathroom with Abbie close behind me. Together, we walk over to the door, pausing so she can arrange my skirt and the fabric to her liking.
“I checked on her this morning before coming to you, and she seemed fine.”
Her voice is so quiet that I almost don’t hear her.
Is she trying to make sure she isn’t overheard by anyone?
Why didn’t she tell me before now? I glance over my shoulder to look at her and see the fear she is trying to hide.
Realisation hits me. She was scared of telling me, and also afraid of someone else finding out.
She was not supposed to visit Ella, yet she went out of her way to do so.
Warmth fills my chest. I am not used to other people doing something nice for me, especially when they receive nothing in return.
Usually people want something from me, and I find it difficult to accept that Abbie is doing this without expecting anything.
However, I truly believe that she did it to help me.
“Thank you for doing that, you did not have to.” I hope she can hear the genuine appreciation in my voice.
Slowly, she gives me a small, timid smile. “I wanted to.”
I believe her and return her smile. There’s a sense of camaraderie hanging over us, a tentative acceptance of each other’s presence. I would not say that we are friends, but it is the start of… something new.
“Okay,” she claps her hands together with a look of determination. “Let’s get this done so we can reunite the two of you.”