Mrs. Rose pressed her lips into a line. Then she stood and moved to the doorway. “Come, come,” she said. She vanished, and Elswyth reluctantly stood from the bath, the perfumed water flowing off her, running in rivers over her scar. She toweled off and grabbed the nearby robe, and then followed Mrs. Rose into the main chamber. Mrs. Rose took her by the hand and sat her forcefully in front of the vanity.
“What do you see?” Mrs. Rose said.
Elswyth appraised her appearance. “Myself?”
“There’s that exceptional mind at work again. I mean what do yousee.” She gestured to different parts of Elswyth’s face.
Elswyth sighed. “I don’t know. Fair skin. Freckles. Red hair. My scar.”
“And are you beautiful?” Mrs. Rose said.
“No,” Elswyth said.
“Why not?”
“Must I say it?”
“Pretend you are writing one of your papers. Can you actually explain why you are not beautiful?”
Elswyth looked at her own face. “It comes down to symmetry.A beautiful thing is symmetrical. I think my face perhaps was symmetrical, before the scarring. But now it cannot be.”
Mrs. Rose turned Elswyth to face her. To Elswyth’s surprise, she took a small pad from the vanity and began to wipe away the layer of arrowroot powder that Elswyth used to cover her scar.
“One of the very first things you learn when learning to dress well, or do hair, or any aesthetic pursuit, is that too much symmetry isboring. Yes, the bones of symmetry must be there, but if something is too perfect, it lacksinterest. A little asymmetry—a hat on one side of the head, a beauty mark on the chin—these imperfections fascinate people.”
“It’s hardly a beauty mark, Mrs. Rose,” Elswyth said. And it wasn’t; the scar was as red and angry as ever. It crawled from her neck to her jaw, then fanned out in fractals, touching her lips, her nose, her eye and eyelid, until dying just below her hairline. There was, in no possible scenario, a way she could be beautiful.
“No, it’s not. It is intense and severe—not unlike your personality.”
“Why, thank you,” Elswyth said dryly.
Mrs. Rose began drawing Elswyth’s hair away from her face. She separated it into sections and then began to braid them together, leaving the scar exposed. Elswyth was about to object, but Mrs. Rose spoke over her.
“I think we have been too focused on making you pretty,” she said. “Pretty is only one part of beauty, which is only one part of allure. Is a mountain range fair? No. Is the ocean merely pretty? No. But it is beautiful. They are not symmetrical, but they are stunning. Imposing. Iconic, even.”
When the braid was finished, Mrs. Rose took Elswyth’s chin and angled her face to catch the light. And yes: There it was. Oneeye like old forest moss; the other like a storm cloud. Hair the color of an autumn wood. A nymphlike face, angular and severe, with high cheekbones and a sharp nose. And her scar, twisting and curling, not dulled by powder, like a lightning strike.
Mrs. Rose’s face joined hers in the mirror, a fire burning in her eyes. “If we cannot make you a lady, then we shall make you alegend.”
When Mrs. Rose had finished, Elswyth was left alone in her room. Her powders and tonics were strewn across the vanity, and swatches of tulle and lace lay on the bed. Elswyth sighed, moving to the bathroom. She closed the door behind her and faced the sink, washing some of the makeup from her face. It was dark in the bathroom; the only light came from the moon, shining through the open window and onto the tile floor.
Elswyth examined herself for a moment—her gray eye was slightly reddened by exhaustion, and the green one seemed tired as well, with a violet shadow beneath it. She splashed cold water on her face again, holding her hands there, then brought them down.
Something moved behind her, reflected in the glass of the mirror. A small, dark shape, flickering across the room.
She turned quickly, searching. The tub stood at the center, four claw feet and a half-full basin. The armoire, in the corner, with the linens. The toilet, the cabinet, the far window on the wall.
The room was still again. But she was sure that she’d seen the dark shape. Too large to be a mouse and not moving like any animal she’d seen before. She waited for a moment—nothing happened.It’s only a mouse again,she thought.The house is full of them.
Another flash. The little shadow appeared in the corner of hervision, almost human in shape but no taller than a foot in height. She shook her head. Was she going mad?A mouse,she thought again.It must be a mouse.
Then the chittering sound again. Like branches creaking in the breeze.Not like any mouse I’ve heard, she thought. She ran to the open window and latched it shut. Whatever it was, it wouldn’t get away. Not this time. The clicking sound echoed in the room again, like the slow call of an insect.
A crash; the sound of something shattering. She jumped, her heartbeat rising, turning to the source of the sound.
On the far wall, several potted plants rested beneath the tall windows. One of them had fallen off its perch, the ceramic shattering on the floor, spraying dirt across the room.
Elswyth frowned and moved to it, about to clean up the mess. But something was strange—in the ruin of the ceramic pot, amid the dirt, there was no plant. She was sure that pot had held aMandragoraspecimen.
