Chapter 18
The next few months passed in a blurry haze of half-remembered days.
To my surprise, the physician had been right.
My scars, once angry and raw, dulled from blistering red to a muted neutral color.
They were still jagged and still felt foreign on my face, but they no longer screamed their presence.
Yet to me, they might as well have been carved in fire.
No fading could make me feel anything less than monstrous.
I rarely left my room. Back at the castle, Comfort had indulged me by sliding trays of food through the door, never pressing, never insisting that I do anything.
She let me mope in the dark to my heart’s content.
I’d been grateful for it then. Rising from bed had been like hauling myself out of quicksand—too much, too heavy, and altogether impossible.
But here, in the manor, Comfort was far less accommodating.
Meals were served in the dining room only.
If I wanted food, I had to come out of my room and claim it myself.
The coddling was gone. She’d had hired a housekeeper—an expense she justified briskly by reminding us we had never so much as boiled an egg for ourselves.
We had taken it for granted that meals would simply be available in the castle’s grand dining hall whenever we wanted them. Now, we desperately needed the help.
Mother and Comfort had both graduated from elite finishing schools and knew how to dance gracefully, do embroidery, and play musical instruments, but their housekeeping skills were negligible. As for me, my usefulness had always been with ink and words, not pots and pans.
And yet, in time, I began to see the wisdom in Comfort’s choices.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, Mother stirred to life again.
At first she only ventured out for short walks like a lost phantom haunting the garden paths.
But little by little, her eyes brightened.
She smiled more often. Once, I even caught her humming a tune to herself as she brushed her hair.
The endless days of weeping in bed dwindled and, after six months, she was at least breathing again, even if there was yet a long way to go to full healing.
Comfort thrived, of course. She always did, no matter the circumstance.
In the nearby village she quickly became popular.
Girls clamored for scraps of castle gossip and boys followed her with wide eyes, or so Comfort said.
I never left the house to find out for myself.
All the things that had made her dazzling at court—her beauty, charm, and quick wit—made her irresistible here.
Everywhere she went, she was flocked by friends and admirers.
“I saw Cynthia again today,” Comfort told Mother and me at dinner. “She brought the glazed rolls over before we went out.”
“Yes, I noticed you two going to town while I was out on my walk,” Mother said. “I was sorry to have missed her. She seems like a sweet girl.”
“She is right about my age. Truly, I think you would get along with her well.”
I gave a non-committal grunt.
“She and her father only live a few estates over. Did you try the rolls?”
“They’re very good,” Mother said approvingly. “I don’t think even the castle chefs could do better.”
“Cynthia and her father cook together all the time. It’s their favorite pastime.”
“Her mother is a lucky woman, then,” Mother said with a gentle smile.
“Her mother died in childbirth. It’s just her and her father now, but he’s a merchant and he travels a lot. He can’t always bring Cynthia so we talk a lot now.”
Mother’s brow knitted together in concern. “The poor girl. She is welcome here any time.”
Comfort took another roll. “She said she knows how to make flaming puddings and fancy dishes like that. When her father travels, he collects recipes they then try out together.” She chattered on, trying as ever to fill the lonely silence that always seemed too close.
I envied Cynthia, despite never having met her.
What I would give to have my own father back again.
Those times of us traveling together, learning languages and practicing them together, had always felt like home.
Cynthia still had time with her father. Did she appreciate it?
Each story Comfort told was another reminder that he was gone and I was left behind.
Loneliness settled into me right down to my bone’s marrow.
Mother began attending weekly embroidery circles in town, Comfort spent her days surrounded by admirers, and I was left to wander the manor’s twisting halls like a ghost. I wanted to make friends again, but the thought of strangers staring at my face and asking questions about how it happened made my skin crawl.
I wasn’t going to subject myself to that sort of embarrassment, and I certainly didn’t want to relive the memories that still haunted my dreams. It was safer to remain hidden even though no pastime held my interest for very long. What purpose did I have anymore?
Most days when we crossed paths, Mother wanted to talk now. She missed the balls, her friends, the celebrations, fashions, and fancy hairstyles. But mostly she missed Father. She missed having him to talk to and be with, to go on walks with and dance with.
At least in our shared isolation—mine a full withdrawing from the world and Mother’s yet partial—Mother and I drew closer together while Comfort went to town each day.
We had never been as bonded as I was with Father, but now our grief over him stitched us together.
In speaking of him, we kept him alive a little longer.
My days blurred into meaningless tasks—picking up a book, setting it down; lifting a quill, then staring at a blank page until ink dried in the tip.
I thought often of writing a letter. But to whom?
The other linguists and members of the court I once worked alongside would hardly care to correspond with a ruined girl. I had no true friends, save one.
Curtis.
His name surfaced again and again, like a splinter I couldn’t quite dig out. My hand itched to write him, but whether it was to say hello, or to offer him a proper farewell, I wasn’t sure. Ought I to confess how I missed him?
“No.” The word burst from me aloud one afternoon. My voice sounded raspy and foreign in the empty room. I pressed my palm to my scarred cheek and whispered fiercely to myself, “That part of my life is over. I have to move forward, not backward.”
Curtis would be absolutely fine without me. In fact, he would be better without me. What prince in his right mind would want a girl whose beauty had been burned away?
I clenched my hands until my nails dug crescents into my palms.
As ever, I tried to push Curtis from my thoughts. A handsome prince had no place in the thoughts of an ugly girl like me.