Page 55

Six years. Six years of living in shadows, of speaking to no one but Mrs. Roskelly and the handful of servants who had known her since childhood and learned to look past her marks. Six years of carefully constructed isolation, of routine and predictability, of knowing exactly what each day would bring.

How could she possibly abandon all of that? How could she throw herself into a world that had already demonstrated its cruelty, that had taught her through painful experience that people with marks like hers were not welcome in polite society?

The thought made her feel giddy, lightheaded, as if the floor were falling away beneath her feet. What would it mean to reveal herself? To exit the hidden rooms and passages that had been her refuge? To face the world with her marked face exposed for all to see?

“The stares,” Isolde gasped, the words bursting out. “Even from those too polite to point, they still notice. They try not to look, but their eyes always find it. They cannot help themselves. The mark draws their gaze like a lodestone, and I can see it in their faces. The shock. The pity. The disgust they try to hide but never quite manage.”

She wrapped her arms around herself, memories flooding back unbidden. The vicar’s wife who had frozen when she first saw Isolde’s face. The traveling merchant who had crossed himself and hurried away as if she carried plague. The children who had pointed and whispered until their mothers hushed them with nervous glances and hurried them along, as if Isolde’s very presence might contaminate their offspring.

And those were just the people in a remote village who knew her family, simple folk who might be forgiven their superstitious fear. What would happen if she tried to enter real society? If she attempted to attend assemblies, or make calls, or participate in any of the normal activities young ladies engaged in?

She would be a curiosity at best. No amount of education or accomplishment could overcome the immediate visual impact of her disfigurement.

“Last night,” Isolde continued, her voice breaking, “Angelo made me forget about it for a few minutes. When he … I felt almost … normal. But every single person I have ever met has eventually stared at the mark. Even the kind ones. Even those who try to be kind. Their eyes move to it, and I can see the moment they truly register what they are seeing. The moment their perception of me changes.”

Mrs. Roskelly set down the laundry and moved to Isolde’s side, pulling her into a gentle embrace. “Hush now, child. Ye are working yerself into a state.”

But Isolde could not stop, the thoughts spiraling faster and faster in her mind. How could Angelo have kissed her when she was so repulsive? The question had been circling since last night, growing sharper with each repetition.

He must have done it out of pity. He was a healer. He had heard the pain in her voice and responded with compassion rather than genuine attraction. The kiss had been an act of kindness, nothing more. A gesture meant to comfort rather than convey true desire.

How could it be anything else? How could someone as handsome, as kind, as accomplished as Angelo Scott actually find her attractive? It was impossible. Absurd.

Angelo was beautiful. That was the only word for it. The warm hazel of his eyes, the way his face lit when he smiled, the graceful competence of his hands as he worked. He could have any woman he wanted. Women without marks, women who could stand beside him in daylight without causing stares and whispers.

Why would he settle for someone like her when he could have someone normal?

He had been sympathetic. That was all. Perhaps he even felt sorry for her, this isolated woman hiding in the walls of a crumbling manor. Perhaps the kiss had been meant as charity, a gift to someone he perceived as pitiable.

The thought made Isolde’s stomach turn.

Mrs. Roskelly seemed to sense the direction of her musings. She pulled back slightly, her hands on Isolde’s shoulders, meeting her eyes with steady reassurance.

“Eventually, they would become used to it,” the housekeeper said gently. “If ye allowed them to know you properly, if ye let the depth of yer character and intelligence shine through, they would forget about the mark altogether.”

The last of Isolde’s fragile hope crumbled. Her legs gave out, and she sank to the floor, pulling her knees to her chest as sobs tore from her throat.

“It is not fair,” she wept, the words muffled against her knees. “What did I do to deserve such an affliction? Why could I not be normal? Why could I not be a young lady like any other, with friends and social calls and the freedom to meet gentlemen without terror? Why must I be marked like this, trapped in these walls, forever separate from the life everyone else takes for granted?”

The injustice of it overwhelmed her. Other young ladies her age were attending assemblies, receiving callers, bearing babes. They fretted over fashion and gossip, whether their husbands still found them attractive. Normal concerns. Human concerns. The sort that appeared in periodicals, discussed in articles that readers wrote in about.

While Isolde hid in the walls of her ancestral home, speaking to no one, experiencing nothing, watching life unfold for others while she remained forever on the outside looking in.

Mrs. Roskelly sank down onto the rug beside her, pulling Isolde into a fierce embrace. “I do not know, child,” she said softly, her own voice thick with emotion. “I wish I had answers for ye. Sometimes life is not fair, and there is no reason we can understand for the burdens we are given to bear.” She rocked Isolde gently, as she had done when Isolde was small and frightened. “But ye deserve more than this. Ye deserve to try to make something more of yer life. Ye are brilliant and talented and kind, and those qualities matter far more than any mark on yer skin.”

“Then why does the mark determine everything?” Isolde demanded, lifting her tear-stained face. “Why does it matter more than anything else about me? Why is it the only thing people see, the thing they cannot look past?”

Mrs. Roskelly had no answer. She simply held Isolde closer, offering the only comfort she could. Presence, warmth, the assurance that at least one person in the world saw her as more than her disfigurement.

They sat together on the floor of the tower chamber as afternoon light slanted through the narrow windows, painting patterns on the stone walls. Outside, seabirds cried and waves crashed against the cliffs with their eternal rhythm. The world continued its turning, indifferent to one woman’s grief.

Eventually, Isolde’s sobs subsided into hitching breaths, then into silence. She felt hollowed out, empty of everything except a bone-deep weariness.

“I cannot face them,” she whispered. “Not Angelo, not the others. I cannot bear to see the pity in their eyes when they truly understand what I look like. Last night was darkness and candlelight. Angelo saw, but not clearly. Not in full light. If I were to stand before him in daylight … ” She trailed off, unable to complete the thought.

“Miss Isolde⁠—”

“No.” Isolde pulled away from Mrs. Roskelly’s embrace, wrapping her arms around herself. “I know what you will say. That I am stronger than I think, that I should have courage, that the world might surprise me. But you do not understand. You cannot understand what it is like to carry this mark, to know that every person who sees you will immediately focus on your greatest shame.”