Chapter 22
“You can’t stay shut up in this room forever, you know.”
Comfort leaned against the doorway to my chambers, arms folded.
She had that maddening combination of impatience and determination lingering about her again.
It was the day of the engagement party for Mother and Algernon, and instead of helping prepare, I found that it was much, much easier to stay in my winged armchair, flipping pages in my book as sunshine poured through the open window.
“I know,” I said, though my voice was little more than a murmur, and I made no effort to rise.
“Then come down tonight,” Comfort pressed. “Meet everyone. Just for Mother’s sake.”
I squirmed in my chair. Why did Comfort have to guilt trip me? Why couldn’t they just accept that I didn’t want to be with people anymore? “I’d rather not,” I whispered, shifting uncomfortably. “I’ll wait until the wedding.”
Comfort’s eyes sharpened. “Tonight isn’t about you. It’s about Mother and Algernon. What kind of daughter hides upstairs when her mother is celebrating something so important?”
I snapped my gaze up to hers, stung. She didn’t flinch. She never did.
“You know it’s the right thing,” she added gently, which somehow made it worse.
I gave an indignant little huff and turned back to my book. “I’ll think about it.”
“Great! I’ll see you there.” She practically sang the words, already halfway down the corridor before I could protest.
“I said I’d think about it!” I called after her, though the sound felt small, swallowed by the empty hall.
Silence returned, broken only by the rustle of pages as I tried unsuccessfully to keep reading.
My eyes slid across the words, but my mind drifted.
The idea of stepping into a room filled with strangers, of their eyes landing on me—on this face—made my skin crawl.
I should have eased myself in by meeting Cynthia and Algernon long ago.
And yet…Comfort was right. Mother had been through enough as it was.
She deserved more than my cowardice. She had carried me through so much darkness already.
Couldn’t I at least manage to smile for her happiness for one night?
If nothing else, I would finally be able to officially meet Cynthia and my future stepfather.
Stepfather. The word felt odd in my mind and strange when I tried to say it out loud.
I barely knew anything about Algernon other than that he was a merchant, had been widowed, and had a daughter my age.
I should have felt more curiosity. Instead, there was only resistance.
How could Mother love another man so soon?
It had only been about a year since Father had passed away. Did it mean he was already forgotten?
The thought made me ache, and yet another voice, the sharp, cold one that lived in the back of my mind, whispered, And did you expect her to mourn forever, like you?
You can’t even leave this room. Did you think she’d freeze her whole life and live on painful memories alone, just to match your grief?
I would never want to condemn my mother to a lifetime of loneliness.
Algernon made her happy, so it shouldn’t matter what I thought of him, and I had never even met the man.
It was time to shelve my pride and do what was best for my mother’s happiness.
Comfort was right. Tonight was about her.
I pressed the book closed with a snap and dragged myself from the chair so I could cross the room and open my wardrobe.
Every dress looked wrong. Too bright, too loud, didn’t have a veil to match that would hide my face…
Yet I couldn’t wear mourning colors either, not to a party meant for celebration.
My hands sifted through gowns half-heartedly until they landed on a pale blue gown edged with pink trim. It would have to do.
The cosmetics came next. My pulse quickened as I pulled the bag into my lap, the vanity’s covered mirror in front of me.
I had kept a blanket thrown over it since we moved in, as if ignoring my reflection could erase what had happened.
But now, there was no avoiding it. My fingers trembled as I pinched the fabric, hesitating.
Then, with a sharp breath, I peeled it back.
Sunlight spilled across the glass, and my chest tightened. For a heartbeat, I braced myself for the monster I had built up in my mind—the girl with a ruined face, scorched beyond all recognition.
But the knot in my stomach began to loosen. It wasn’t as bad as I’d been imagining.
I blinked, leaning closer. The memory I’d carried for so long was frozen in those early days of angry red boils and puffy skin, raw and unrecognizable.
But the girl in the mirror now was…different.
Healing had done its work quietly and steadily when I hadn’t been watching.
The vivid colors had faded to softer tones, and though thin lines of scarring still stitched across my skin, they were only traces.
I tilted my head, studying myself critically.
The pinched, puckered edges of the scars were still there, yes, but they no longer screamed as loudly as they once had.
If I wanted, with the right brushstroke or dab of concealer, I could soften them even more.
Maybe they wouldn’t be the first thing anyone saw anymore.
Much of my hair had regrown. It was still very short, barely past the bottom of my ears, but long enough that I might be able to get away with claiming it was some fashion statement. I moved my head from side to side. I could also still wear a wig until it was fully regrown.
The note from Comfort peeked out of the bag with that message, I miss your confidence.
I ran my thumb over the words, my throat tightening.
She was right. I had buried myself for too long, shrinking from the mirror, from the world, from myself.
I missed the woman I had once been—the one who smiled freely and who walked into rooms without doubting she belonged—and I was determined to reclaim that version of myself. She wasn’t gone; she was just waiting.
Slowly, almost shyly, I smiled at my reflection. It wasn’t a perfect smile, not yet. But it was real.
I didn’t need to hide anymore.
It had been so long since I had attempted any sort of cosmetics that I had all but forgotten how, and I had never had the dab hand at it that Comfort and Mother did. Even before the balls we used to attend, it was usually one of them who had helped me get ready.
I did my best to remember what they had done. I smeared moisturizer across my cheeks, dusted powder in swirls, dabbed pinks and reds onto my lips and cheeks, trying to summon some semblance of the beauty they could always conjure. But the longer I worked, the worse it became.
An hour later, a stranger in the mirror stared back.
The tint I’d attempted to apply to my cheeks only emphasized the jagged scars still spanning my left cheek, making them appear redder, angrier, much more similar to the first days after the attack.
My poor job of shading my eyes had smeared so they looked bruised and I looked like a sleep-deprived racoon.
I was a grotesque parody of beauty, not a restoration of it.
I sighed. Here I was, trying to reclaim my looks, and I had only succeeded in making myself look far worse.
I checked the clock. Guests would be here in only a few hours. I had no choice; I needed Comfort’s help. She would be able to fix it. I rolled my eyes at my reflection. At least she would be able to get a good laugh out of the situation.
I left the mess behind, cosmetics still caked haphazardly to my skin and wandered into the hall.
The manor felt strangely alive tonight, furnished with vases of fresh flowers on every side table, chairs pulled to the walls to open the space, and curtains flung wide to invite in the sunshine.
The very air buzzed with anticipation. It reminded me somewhat of the palace balls of my youth.
Tonight, there would be music, laughter, and dancing again.
That was just what Mother wanted; she missed dancing with Father so much.
Hopefully this Algernon would prove to be a capable partner.
“Comfort?” I called, my voice echoing in the grand corridor. “Where are you?”
“In the kitchen!” came the faint reply.
I followed the sound, weaving past bursts of color and more vases full of flowers.
It was still amazing to me how large the manor was.
Multiple rooms had no purpose at all, but all of them would be needed tonight, to make space for the long list of guests.
The air grew warmer as I approached the swinging door to the kitchens.
Comfort’s familiar, bubbling laughter came from inside. I pushed the door open, then froze.
Comfort wasn’t alone.
She was standing across the table from a blonde girl about our same age who I recognized from my brief glimpses of her from my bedroom window. This must be Cynthia, my new stepsister.
My lips parted, ready to smile and introduce myself, but the moment she caught sight of me, she shrieked.
“Aaaahh, get away!” she cried, recoiling as if I carried a horrendous, contagious disease. Her gaze swept over me like a knife. “What’s wrong with your face?”
I couldn’t breathe. The words cut me clean open, leaving me exposed and vulnerable. Surely she meant it as a very poor joke. Surely—
But no. Her body language showed it all. She cringed away from me and made tiny shooing motions like I was something foul that had crawled out of the sewers. “Did you hear me? Get lost, Ugly. Go away! We don’t want—”
“Shut up!” Comfort screamed at her. Her face blazed with fury. “Just shut up, will you?”
I fled. Blinded by tears, I stumbled out and ran back to the security of my solitary room. Comfort’s voice followed, still shouting at Cynthia and defending me, but the words dissolved beneath the thunder of my footsteps and the roar of blood in my ears.
By the time I reached my room and bolted the door, my chest was heaving, and hot tears had cut tracks down my face. The uncovered mirror threw my own reflection back at me, mocking me with its truth. For one terrible heartbeat, I looked at myself. Would everyone react the way Cynthia did?
Then my rage erupted.
My hand shot for the inkpot on my desk, and I hurled it against the polished glass with all my might.
The mirror shattered in a satisfying, ink-splattered crash, shards exploding across the floor.
It wasn’t enough. I ripped the mirror’s frame from the vanity and slammed it to the ground, splintering wood and glass until my hands ran slick with blood.
What did it matter if my hands were just as ugly as my face?
The pain didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.
I crumpled onto the bed, dragging the covers over me, curling small and tight, wishing to vanish into darkness. I didn’t want to ever leave this room again. I didn’t want to ever see anyone ever again. I didn’t want this face anymore.
I wished, more than anything, to be someone—anyone—else.