Chapter 18

The next few months were a blur. To my disbelief, the physician was correct—my scars were actually fading. They slowly changed from glaringly red to a more neutral color, but I still felt hideous. I stayed in my room and rarely came out. Before, when we still lived at the castle, Comfort had coddled me, bringing me meals into my room, and never asked me to do anything. She had just allowed me to sit and mope. I had been glad of that. Back then, getting out of bed required more effort than I usually had.

But now, she was far less accommodating. Meals were served in the dining room only, and if I was hungry, I had to leave my room. Comfort had also hired a housekeeper that would prepare meals and tidy the house for us. It was an essential expense; having been raised in the castle, none of us knew how to cook or clean. Mother and Comfort had both graduated from elite finishing schools and knew how to ice cakes beautifully when presented with the materials but couldn’t even prepare the frosting independently. None of us had ever foreseen the need to learn.

But as the weeks crawled by, I saw the wisdom Comfort had when she had suggested we move and selected this location to live. I saw Mother coming alive again. She began going out on walks, smiling, and I even heard her sing on occasion. It was a very gradual process, but after six long months, the weeping in bed all day had almost completely ceased.

Comfort had become acquainted with several girls in the village, all eager for the latest and greatest castle gossip. Comfort had always been a social butterfly, friends amongst all the girls and the highest prize for any boy to ask out, but now she was the epitome of popular. She became an instant celebrity because she grew up around royalty, and everywhere she went, she was flocked by friends and admirers.

All the girls asked about the latest fashions, all the boys would stare as she passed by. Or so Comfort said. I never left the house to find out for myself. Comfort told me that there was a girl just between us in age who lived at the nearest manor and claimed we would be the best of friends. The girl lived with her father, her mother having died in childbirth. Cynthia, Comfort called her. They quickly became close friends. From my window, I would often see Cynthia arriving at our manor, or she and Comfort walking to town together.

At dinnertime, Comfort would chatter to fill the lonely silence of our house, telling us about how Cynthia made a dessert that was supposed to be set on fire before being served. Her father was a merchant, but his hobby was cooking, so he and Cynthia would search for recipes from all over the world, from all different cultures. Every time Comfort would prattle on about Cynthia’s latest travels with her Father, and what fantastic recipe they had brought back to try, I couldn’t help but remember Father and all the journeys we took together.

I wanted to make friends. It was desperately lonely in our large, empty manor. Comfort spent most of the day out and about socializing. Mother began a weekly women’s embroidery meetup in town, and I was often left behind, alone and trying hard to not feel neglected.

Comfort constantly beseeched me to come with her, but as much as I wanted to, I still couldn’t bear to go into public. The thought of being seen by other people, by strangers who would stare… I just couldn’t subject myself to that inevitable humiliation.

As Comfort began spending more time in town enjoying her popularity and newfound freedom, I found myself alone for the majority of the day. I tried to distract myself with one pastime then another, but none stuck. I was floundering for purpose. I did begin spending more time with Mother. I could tell she was lonely too, still grieving for Father but trying desperately to fill that void by talking to me, with sewing circles, by any way she could. Just like I was.

I had always spent so much time with Father, learning languages, traveling as a delegate, that Mother and I didn’t have much to talk about. I never had felt as close with Mother as I had been with Father, but it was our mutual love for him and our memories of him that brought us together. Mother seemed so fragile lately that I felt the need to help her in whatever way I could. And for me, that was talking.

Mother missed the balls, her friends, the celebrations, fashions and fancy hairstyles. But mostly she missed Father. She missed having someone to talk to and be with, go on walks with and dance with. Comfort went out as often as she could, and I had hidden myself away ever since Father’s death. So Mother was by herself just as often as I was. We were three women living under the same roof, but all feeling isolated from the others.

Day after day, week after week, I aimlessly wandered around the manor, searching for purpose. Dozens of times I picked up a quill to write to someone, but who? Surely the council members I worked with would be too busy or too uninterested in writing to a girl, a commoner at that. I had no real friends that I had lived by except Curtis.

The idea surfaced over and over, my hand itching to write, but whether it was to say hello, or to offer him a proper farewell, I wasn’t sure. To tell him how much I missed him?

“No!” I said, surprised when the words came out aloud. Internally, I added, ‘that part of my life is over. I have to move forward from here, not go backwards.’ Curtis would be absolutely fine without me. Better than with me, I was sure. What self-respecting prince would want an ugly wife?

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.