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I wasn’t as talented as Mother or Comfort in this area. For that matter, I didn’t consider myself talented at all when it came to these new powders, creams, dyes, and brushes. But I also didn’t want to ask for their assistance when I knew they were busy with preparations for the festivities tonight. Besides, I needed to learn to do things for myself. I couldn’t stay dependent forever.

My brow furrowed as I studied the tools in front of me. Slowly, I pulled out a cream and slathered it onto my face. Turning my head this way and that, I rubbed it in to moisturize my skin, particularly the burnt area. Then I used powders to coat on top of the cream, trying to create a smooth appearance. I snatched brushes at random, trying to blend the cosmetics to hide the disfigured part of my face.

An hour later, I stared at my reflection. My attempt to hide my disfigurement was an utter failure. I had tried to use faint pink dyes to tint my cheeks and lips, but had only succeeded in accentuating the ragged scars along my left cheek, making me look even uglier than I really was. The shading I had attempted on my eyelids had smeared, making it look like I had a brown and blue bruised eye. I hadn’t selected a wig yet either. My natural hair only just reached the bottom of my ears. Still too short to forego a wig.

I checked the clock. No guests were due to arrive for a few hours yet. I would have to have Comfort help me. I left my room. I didn’t even bother to wipe the caked-on goop off my face. Comfort would be able to tell me where I went wrong.

The house looked different. Friendlier. Sofas and chairs were set along the perimeter of all the rooms. Flowers in vases adorned mantels and side tables. A spot for an orchestra had been cleared, and tables were set up, ready for food to be laid on it. I was reminded strongly of the balls that we had attended so frequently while living at the castle. I saw that a large area had been cleared, most likely for dancing.

I was glad for Mother—she missed dancing with Father so much. I hoped that this Sir Algernon proved to be a capable dancer. And I was sure Comfort would be thrilled to have a long procession of dance partners as she always had before.

“Comfort?” I called loudly. It was still amazing to me how large the manor was. We had multiple rooms that had no purpose at all, but all rooms would be needed tonight, to make space for the long list of guests.

“In the kitchen!” came her voice from far away. I headed that way, still admiring all the decorations on the way. Comfort and Mother had put in a lot of work.

Muffled voices floated out from behind the swinging door leading to the kitchen. I pushed open the door and came face to face with Cynthia for the very first time. I recognized her from the glimpses I had caught of her from my window as she and Comfort had headed to town together. I started to smile to say hello. This was my new stepsister, after all.

Cynthia squealed, leaping back from me as though I had a contagious disease. “Ooooh, your maid is hideous,” she sneered. “Get her out of here before anyone sees.”

I froze. I couldn’t even breathe. Comfort’s mouth gaped open, lost for words. Both of us were stunned into silence. Was this a joke? Certainly grossly lacking sensitivity if she intended it to be.

Cynthia made little shooing motions at me. “Did you hear me? Get lost, Ugly,” she said slowly, as though I was unable to understand her. “Go away! We don’t want you—"

“Shut up!” screamed Comfort suddenly. She seemed to have found her voice. “Just shut up, will you?”

I fled. I barely saw where I was going as tears sprang to my eyes. I could hear Comfort still screaming, berating Cynthia, defending me. But it was impossible to decipher any words over the pounding of me feet.

I rushed back to my room, bolted the door, and meant to drop into bed. But I caught sight of my reflection in the still uncovered mirror. For the briefest of moments, I stared at my scarred, ugly face. It was unbearable. I snatched up a clay ink pot and hurled it against the glass. The mirror and pot both shattered with a satisfying crash, splattering everything with dark black ink.

As if that wasn’t enough, I wrenched the entire mirror’s frame from the wall and flung it to the ground. The wooden frame splintered, and the small remaining fragments of glass were crushed into a powder. My hands were bleeding from the cut glass, but I didn’t care. So what if my hands became as ugly as my face?

Sobbing, I curled into a ball underneath my covers. I didn’t ever want to leave this room again. I didn’t want to have my face anymore. I wished I could be someone, anyone, else.

CHAPTER 23

I must have cried myself to sleep, because a soft knock at my door woke me up. But I couldn’t have slept long, because daylight still streamed in through the window. Globs of makeup clung to my pillow. Half awake, I called “Who is it?” and Mother’s voice softly answered. I stepped out of bed, then gasped in pain as my foot was cut—the floor was littered with sharp shards of glass, splinters of wood.

“Just a minute!” I called, slipping on my house slippers to gingerly walk over the crunching fragments of mirror. I was just about to unbolt the door when I had a sneaking suspicion, the memory of the afternoon hitting me like a cartload of brick. “Is it just you there, Mother?”

There was a pause. “No, sweetheart. Cynthia is here too. She came to apologize.”

“I am really, really sorry!” came a very embarrassed voice. “I didn’t know it was you when you came in, and I was just surprised is all.”

My humiliation and outrage came flooding back in full force. “Oh, you mean it is okay to mock people as long as you don’t know them?” I snapped waspishly through the door. The nerve of her, coming to see me right after openly ridiculing me.

“No! No, you are right, I shouldn’t have said that.” Cynthia’s voice was pleading, but I was too angry to care.

“No, you shouldn’t have said anything!” I shouted.

“I am sorry. I feel really bad,” Cynthia insisted.

“How do you think I feel?” I raged. “But no one cares about how an ugly girl feels, do they? Well, how dare I let your pretty little head experience even a tiny bit of feeling bad by not forgiving you the instant you come groveling!”

“Truly, darling, that is no way for a lady to behave,” Mother reprimanded gently.

“No, I forgot. A lady should forget her husband and run off with the first man she meets like you did!” I screeched. I knew I was being unfair. Knew I was being a self-centered brat. It was almost as though I could hear myself shouting those hateful words but couldn’t stop.

I was sick of it. Sick of being afraid to go out into public for the exact reason that Cynthia had brought to pass. Sick of being ignored by my family. Sick of having to hide from the world. I was done with dealing with people. Done with everything!