CH. 19 Powder, Pettiness, and Poor Life Choices
I've decided that if I ever survive all this, I'm building a statue of Hegar.
It will be life-size, carved from the most unflattering stone I can find, and beneath it I'll engrave: "He saved a witch's secret and tolerated her nonsense."
Because honestly, the man deserves it.
Last night, when the moon dipped and my glorious ugliness started to fade, I nearly panicked. The warts began retreating like embarrassed mushrooms, my teeth straightened, my nose shrank — the whole dreadful performance of becoming beautiful again.
If Sorien had seen it, I'd have died on the spot from mortification.
But Hegar — clever, infuriatingly composed Hegar — handled it like he was born for lying.
"She's afflicted," he told the guards at the dawn checkpoint. "Her skin reacts badly to sunlight. Doctor's orders — no exposure."
They nodded sympathetically, because apparently nobles believe any illness is either a divine punishment or a fashionable statement.
When they peeked into my carriage later that morning, there I was — skin mottled, nose magnificent, hair rebelling against gravity. An absolute masterpiece of misfortune.
Hegar didn't even blink. "See?" he said. "Still alive. Barely."
I owe him for that. Which is annoying, because I hate owing anyone anything.
The palace looks different in daylight — sharper, crueler. The moonlight hid the cracks; the sun shows them off.
Every corridor gleams with too much gold, every window reflects too-perfect faces. The people here are polished like stones — pale, powdered, precise.
In one of the courtyards, I pause near a group of women clustered around a marble fountain. They gleam in silks the color of sunrise, their laughter sharp as glass. Each one is armed with a compact mirror and an army of powders.
I watch them reassemble their faces like painters touching up a masterpiece. A blonde dabs powder onto her cheeks until she resembles a snowdrift with opinions. Another paints her lips a poisonous red, then puckers and squints at her reflection.
Curiosity gets the better of me. I lift my hand and attempt the same ridiculous pout.
The result? Somewhere between a startled duck and someone about to sneeze.
I snort. Loudly.
A few heads turn. I pretend to examine a nearby statue, because dignity is a fragile thing.
When I glance sideways, Hegar's standing a few paces away, arms crossed, an unmistakable smirk tugging at his mouth.
"What?" I demand.
"Nothing," he says, far too quickly. "Just... enlightening to see your methods of cultural integration."
"Oh, shove it," I mutter, but my cheeks warm.
He chuckles under his breath — a sound so rare it almost feels like winning.
And then the air changes.
Whispers, quick and cutting:
"What happened to her face?"
"Is she ill?"
"She's... not from the court, surely?"
One woman, draped in violet silk, stares at me the way one stares at a dying bird — fascinated, horrified, and grateful it isn't her.
"Poor thing," she murmurs to her friend, loud enough for me to hear. "Some people aren't built for public view."
I smile sweetly. "Oh, don't worry. You're very forgettable."
Her friend gasps. The first woman stiffens like she's swallowed a sword.
Hegar pinches the bridge of his nose. "Drew."
"What?" I whisper. "I'm being polite."
"Polite doesn't usually involve threats."
"Then I'm redefining etiquette."
But as we move through the halls, the laughter I wear like armor starts to crack.
Because here's the truth — and I hate truths, especially the ugly ones:
It hurts.
It hurts how easily they look through me. How they tilt their heads, pitying, or recoil like I might stain their silk with my existence.
I've brewed poisons that kill in a single drop.
I've cursed men into stone and women into serpents.
But this — this quiet cruelty of the beautiful — it seeps deeper than any toxin.
And the worst part? I know what they'd do if they saw me at night.
If I stood before them with silver hair and smooth skin, they'd gasp, adore, worship even. They'd forget the witch they spat at and remember only the woman they wished to become.
They wouldn't realize it was the same person.
The thought makes me sick.
Hegar must sense the silence hanging off me, because he glances over. "Ignore them."
"I do," I say too quickly.
"Then stop clenching your fists."
I look down. My knuckles are white.
"Oh. That." I exhale. "Just thinking about strangling societal expectations."
A pause. Then, quietly, he says, "It never changes. They worship what glitters and fear what breathes."
I blink at him. "Was that poetry?"
"It was an observation."
"Well, keep observing. You're good at it."
Later, when Sorien appears at the far end of the corridor, I brace myself.
He walks with that infuriating quiet confidence — no hesitation, no performance. People part for him automatically, though he doesn't even notice.
He stops in front of me, gaze sweeping over my face. "You look... different."
I swallow. "Bad different or worse different?"
His brow furrows, not in disgust — in confusion. "Neither. Just... different."
I can't tell if that's an insult or a miracle.
"Maybe you're seeing me under better lighting," I say lightly.
He doesn't smile. "You shouldn't care what they say."
"Oh, I don't. I just keep a running list for later cursing."
His lips twitch — the ghost of amusement. "You're impossible."
"Thank you. It's my brand."
But when he leaves, the hall falls quiet again.
I'm left staring at the endless mirrors lining the walls — each one reflecting a face I've loved all my life.
A face that resembles Aunt Agitha's, and the sketches of my ma — all glorious warts and all.
It's strange, isn't it? How beauty can feel like a cage when it's supposed to be a gift.
I think of the women outside the palace — my customers — begging for clearer skin, smaller noses, softer smiles. Each of them chasing something that never truly existed.
They'd kill for what I have under moonlight.
And I'd kill to not have it.
"Humans are ridiculous," I whisper to my reflection.
It smiles back — all asymmetry and crooked teeth, every imperfection I've ever adored.
I press my fingers to the glass, half expecting it to crack beneath the touch.
"And so am I."