She had been a beautiful child, with long, lustrous hair and eyes that glittered like emeralds. Her laughter was charming, her smile enchanting, and her voice like bells on wind. When she grew up, she only grew lovelier still, her face losing some of its childhood roundness and her body settled into soft, womanly curves. She had a way of standing that was both graceful and timeless.

Her father was a wealthy merchant whose only aspiration in life was to attain nobility. She was a gift to him, an easy ticket into the high circles that he both envied and loved. He dressed her in silks, forbade her to go out without so much as a parasol so that her skin stayed creamy and pale, and reared her to be a pretty little pawn.

When she turned fourteen, the young men in the city began turning their heads as she passed by with her maid, examining hair ribbons or pretty little trinkets in the market place. They began calling to her house and inviting her to this ball or that festival. The visits—and her beaus—only grew more as time passed and she grew more ravishing still.

“You’re too good for any of them, Marise,” sniffed her mother. “Don’t ever go within their presence without a proper chaperone. We don’t want your reputation tarnished now. You must be perfect for your husband.” Who this husband would be, she didn’t know, but her parents spoke continually of him as if she were already betrothed.

When her sixteenth summer had passed, her father took her to her first ball. Her maid painted her lips with a soft red rogue and coiled her hair into silky ringlets. She dressed her in a dress of fine green silk with black lace lingering at her wrists and collarbones, and a pair of soft silk slippers. Emeralds glittered at her neck and ears, scattered in her hair.

“Oh, you are a vision, young miss,” sighed the maid as she patted away a lump in the cloth. “You’re sure to snarl all the men at that ball tonight, and I don’t doubt your papa will pick the richest and most horrible of them all.

Marise blinked. “Beka?”

“Yes, miss?”

“…Never mind.”

---

The ballroom was magnificent, far more so than the ones she’d been to before. It had arching ceilings and the chandeliers dripped with crystals. A painted blue sky and angelic cherubs peeked out behind fluffy clouds on the ceiling overhead.

The people on the dance floor were even more extravagant than the room itself, if that were possible. A girl clad in wine-colored velvet, a man in fine white lawn. She saw silk and lace and gold and jewels. The ladies fluttered their fans and laces, their corsets cinched tight and their hair piled high upon their heads as they charmed or allowed themselves to be charmed by the gentlemen in the waist-length coats.

More than a few heads turned her way, male and female alike, the former with shining admiration or something less virtuous, and the latter with envy and immediate dislike. Men approached her father on the pretense of talk, but their eyes strayed to his side to linger upon her face and form.

“Merchant Valise.”

Her father looked up from his wine glass to see the man standing there and nearly fell over himself in his haste to sketch a bow. “Your Grace.”

The man smiled. “I trust you are well.”

“Very well. I am flattered for your Grace’s concern.”

“No need.” His eyes strayed, like all the others, but they remained bold upon her face. “Your daughter, I presume?”

“Yes, yes. My lord Duke, may I present to you my daughter Marise. Marise, this is Duke Parrington of Gladewater.”

“Please, call me Astarte.” The duke swept an elegant bow, taking her extended hand and brushing his lips upon it. “It is a pleasure. Your daughter has grown quite lovely, Valise.”

“Your Grace flatters us. Doesn’t he, Marise?” the slight sharp tone in his voice warned her. She obediently dipped a small curtsey.

“Your Grace is kind,” she murmured.

Astarte smiled. “Charming,” he said, more to himself. “I trust she is of age?”

“Just sixteen this summer.”

He raised a brow. “A trifle old to be still unclaimed when she is as fresh as a flower?”

Valise drew himself up. “I will entrust my daughter to a man who can take care of her.”

Was it her imagination, or were the duke’s eyes laughing coldly. “Of course, Valise, of course. If you may excuse me, I must make my greetings to the Baron of Kelsborth.”

She saw the look of gleaming triumph in her father’s eyes before he spoke. “The duke of Gladewater! Your conquests are improving, Marise. I knew it was a good idea to bring you here.”

She said nothing. The duke had sounded pleasant and polite, but there was an unease at the way his eyes had lingered upon her.

---

Voices in her father’s study made her pause in the hall. One was her father’s; the other was unfamiliar. Curiosity drove her to eavesdropping—very unladylike, she was sure, but her attention was swept away by the sound of her name.

“…Marise is a fine catch, my lord.” Her father was saying.

“Indeed, merchant, but surely her dowry is not quite so small!”

“My lord baron, I am not so prosperous a man that I may pour my blood into her dowry as well! I have no sons to care for me when I grow old, and my wife is barren…the gold you ask for is for my old age…”

“Enough, Valise. The girl is not so special that I might accept her for a few carts of silk and hardly any jewels besides.”

Her father’s voice grew low and persuading. “But my lord, surely you see her fine points. She is pleasing to look at, accomplished and well-mannered that she would not embarrass you at court. She understands the basic functions, and she is strong and healthy enough to bear you sons easily.”

Marise stepped back from the door, her mood spoiled as her father continued to wax compliments of her as if he were describing a prize horse. She turned to the courtyard.

Only to find her maid keeping company with the young stable boy. Too young, younger than her Beka by a year or so. That was improper, but the look on Beka’s face…the way her horse-like face lit up when Stefan grinned engagingly and softened her face.


She was happy.

Suddenly at odds with herself, Marise turned and left the courtyard.

---

“We found you a husband, Marise,” her father announced as if he’d accomplished a particularly hard negotiation. Her mother looked delighted at the news.

Slowly, Marise set down her spoon, the silver singing softly against the porcelain bowl. She looked up, her face carefully masked. “Is it the baron?”

“The baron?” her father scoffed as if he had not been jibing and cajoling the noble to marry her a week ago. “The man is a greedy scoundrel. No, Marise, the duke of Gladewater himself asked for your hand!”

Her heart stopped.

The duke of Gladewater. Astarte. They’d met several more times since the ball, and each time she felt a strange sense of foreboding unease. Eyes watching her when her backed was turned, but when she looked back, the duke was conversing easily with the lord of Boarshollow. The unpleasant chills that raced over her skin whenever his eyes met hers.

She didn’t like the duke, for all his pretty words and pleasant demeanor.

“What’s the matter, girl?” her father said impatiently. “You’ve just snagged the finest catch of the season! Don’t just sit there!”

“I…feel unwell. Please excuse me.” She got to her feet, discarding her napkin and walked out of the room as quickly as she could without running, ignoring the surprised looks her parents exchanged. Her stomach rolled.

The duke of Gladewater.

---

“Oh my, he is quite the looker, isn’t he?” Beka laughed when she found out. “He must have been smitten hard by your loveliness, young miss. Or shall I call you ‘my lady’ now? Your Grace?” Beka laughed again, her hands gentle as she brushed Marise’s long, long hair.

Marise didn’t laugh. Her thoughts were a muddle of scenes; the duke in the ballroom, his eyes cold, contrasting with the warm smile playing across his handsome face; her father, old and shrew and gloating as he sold her away to a man she didn’t know, and then, Beka, and Stefan, laughing in the courtyard…

“You’re seeing that stable boy Stefan, aren’t you?” she said abruptly.

Beka froze, her body stiffening. “I—”

Marise held up a hand, soft and delicate, so large a comparison with Beka’s work-worn calluses. “It’s fine, Beka. I don’t mean to pry into your personal life. Just…” she faltered. “You seem so happy…I didn’t expect…Stefan…”

Beka laughed, seeming to relax again. “I was surprised, too. Imagine when that dashing young boy declared he’d court me in front of the entire kitchen staff!” she laughed again, tenderly as she resumed brushing Marise’s hair. “Plain old Beka, that’s what everyone said. But you know…I really do love him.”

Marise was quiet for the rest of the day.

---

“Marise,” greeted the duke as she descended from the carriage. “You are resplendent.”

“Your Grace has a way with words,” she murmured, accepting his hand as he led her into the ballroom.

“There’s no need to be so formal if you are to be my betrothed. Call me Astarte, please.” He laughed, but it didn’t reach his eyes. The small quartet in the corner started up a new song. A hand was extended to her. “Might I have this first dance?”

They whirled away under the dazzling crystal lights, followed by envious eyes and jealous whispers. But they didn’t make her feel important or flattered, no more than did the hands on the small of her back and cupping her hand send tingles through her skin.


A number of dances later, Astarte called for a rest and handed her off to the noble women. They fussed over her, sighed at her good fortune, spoke to her in tones that ranged from barely civil to glaringly fake; asking how she got her hair to shine so, where she commissioned her dress, how she kept her skin so light and smooth…

She escaped after an hour of their company, begging fresh air. Her slippers padded over the marble floor soundlessly.

The sound of loud, bawdy laughter caught her attention. Some of the young men had gotten into the un-watered wine, and had indulged a little too much. In their midst was Astarte, his cheeks flushed with heat and a careless smile on his face. She moved away quickly, but he caught sight of her before she could escape.

“Marise, darling, come here.”

She could only obey.

“Dear, dear, you do look stunning, did you know that?” Astarte laughed, echoed by his companions. “Of course you did, you probably hear that every day from the wenches and lads.” He didn’t seem to notice her silence, reaching out to grip her chin and turn it this way or that. “My, my, such a pretty face. I do believe you’ve properly captivated me.”

She found her voice. “Do you love me, my lord duke?” His inebriated good mood made her bold.

He stared at her, befuddled for a moment. Then he burst into raucous laughter, leaning over and slapping his knee, wine glass splashing burgundy liquor onto the ground. His cronies joined him, their voices an unpleasant orchestra of cawing crows.

“What’s gotten into you?” he finally said, wiping his face of laughter tears. “Women. They must have their fantasies, don’t they?” That set him laughing again.

She left before she could say something worse.

---

Leave or stay, leave or stay, leave or stay.

She saw the soft feathered pillows on her bed, the grand, polished wardrobe in the corner, her comfortable life laid out before her, if only she could endure living the life of a painting wearing away.

Leave or stay, leave or stay, leave or stay.

Her own reflection in the mirror, her eyes large and sad and the condemning beauty that made everyone want to hang her on a wall for display…

Leave or stay, leave or stay, leave or stay.

Her reflection was replaced by the joy in Beka’s face, the tenderness in Stefan’s. That courtyard scene made her get up and fumble for her belongings.

Leave and never come back.

“Mama, we have a guest!” the little boy announced cheerfully as he led the stranger into the humble hut.

The woman behind the makeshift kitchen pushed her hair back into its bun, looking up to see the slim, hooded person standing in her kitchen. His clothing was of good make, as was his bag. Perhaps a traveling merchant, just starting out?

“Take a seat, good sir, I’ll serve you dinner in a bit.”

She saw a small smile spread across a white face by lips too plump and rich to be called masculine. “My thanks, madam. I’ll pay for my fare, of course.” The voice was low and feminine, and the hood slid back to reveal a face too pretty to be male, though her hair was cut brutally short.

“None of that, though I could use a strapping young thing like you around the house.” She eyed her briskly. “Stay on a few days, and we’ll feed you and lend you our roof.”

The smile grew sweet and bright with gratitude. “Thank you.”

“Of course, dear.”

AN: I came home thoroughly dissatisfied with the ending I came up with, and wrote the ending that I had originally intended to write. It's much darker, but I like it a lot. I hope everyone who's already read it will read it again. Now, from where we left off, right before I struck through the false ending.

The guards hauled her through the door and threw her to the ground. There was no grandeur in this room, only plain, black stones for walls and a rough dirt floor. A single candle burned on the desk, shedding weak, flickering light throughout the room.

 

Sitting at the table was the duke of Gladewater, his finery at complete odds with the dreary dungeon. A piece of parchment was in one hand, a fine goblet of dark, red wine in the other. He took a sip before bringing his gaze upon her filthy form.

 

Her face was streaked with dust and grime, and her long, long hair sheared off to ragged ends by rusty scissors and clumsy hands. The rough tunic and breeches she wore were stolen from the storage, and her chest bound flat. She would’ve been unrecognizable save for the jewel green eyes and the face too pretty to be male.

 

“My, my, how the beauty has fallen. Not so beauteous now, are you, my dear Marise?” The duke’s voice was polite and cordial, but there was a cold undertone to it.  Marise shuddered unconsciously under the stolen woolen clothes.

 

He noticed. “Cold, my dear? Perhaps your little excursion has taught you that a flower such as you is not suited for a commoner’s life, much less a boy’s. Have you come to your senses, or shall I let you live on their maggot-riddled filth for a time more?”

 

Her chin jerked up defiantly, head held high despite the indignity. “I would rather live amongst the pigs in the pigsty than become your bride.”

 

“It is a pity, then,” the duke picked up the parchment again, tracing his fingers over the inked letters, “that you’ve upset me so. Imagine how my disgrace will seem to the entire court when they find my bride to be has run away!” His eyes cooled considerably. “You have crossed the wrong man, girl. Where you may have worn jewels upon your neck worth more than your life and silks imported from over the seas, you threw away the chance and stomped on my generosity. Do not expect me to take you back.”

 

“As I have said, Your Grace, you make the pigsty look most inviting.”

 

Something in his eyes snapped, though his face was ever a mask and his voice controlled. “Hold your tongue, strumpet, or I shall cut it out for you.”

 

Marise’s smile had an ugly twist to it. “So you may hang it upon your wall with the others?”

 

There was a sharp crack, and she was knocked back to the ground, her cheek stinging and quickly reddening where a handprint was already forming. Astarte’s raged face only surfaced for a moment before it returned to the mask.

 

He stood and walked towards the door. “Guards, you may carve her face up for me. She’ll tempt no man by the time I’m finished with her.” A cruel light entered his face, and he smiled chillingly. “Have your way with her if you wish, and then toss her out for the wolves.

 

The door slammed shut, and screams filled the air that night.

 

---

 

The gravel dug painfully into her side, but it was nothing to the fiery agony slashed over her features, warm blood still trickling over open wounds and drying into ugly brown trails. Overhead, the sky was as dark as velvet, with a sliver of moon as a guide and stars twinkling faintly.

 

She heard the sounds of the woodland creatures scurrying around under the cover of night. In the distance, there was the lone call of a wolf. It was enough to encourage her to painfully lift her head and begin dragging her body down the forgotten deer trail.

 

Hours—it seemed like days—later, her muscles at last gave on her, and her body fell heavily onto the itching grass and twigs. The last thing her eyes saw before they closed was a faint glow of a lantern light, bobbing as it came closer.

 

---

 

“Mama, mama, there’s a strange woman in the village!” the little boy ran up to the village seamstress, clutching at her skirts and his face bright and animated with excitement as he chattered. “A woman, her face scarred all over and her fingers, too! She had a basket like the midwives carry,” he added as an afterthought.

 

Beka set aside the dress she was sewing and picked up her son. “A scarred woman? That must be the new village healer. I must greet her in thanks. We’ve needed a healer for a long time.”

 

The boy eagerly took her hand and led her to the spot.

 

Her face was mutilated, as they said, scarred heavily from some past violence done to her. But her hair was long and smooth, and her eyes, as green and bright as emeralds, popped out from her face.

 

“Hello,” Beka said in a friendly voice. “You must be our new village healer. It’s nice to meet you. I’m Beka, the seamstress.”

 

The scarred woman stared at her, as if she couldn’t believe her eyes, before she finally said something, her torn mouth twisting into a real smile. “It’s nice to meet you as well, Beka.”

 

“I do hope you’ll settle here,” Beka said, her voice warm. “If you need anything, just ask for me, or my husband Stefan.”

 

“Yes, I’ll do that.”

 

Beka nodded. “Well, I’ll leave you to your unpacking. Another day, mistress…ah, I still haven’t gotten your name.”

 

Another smile, as sweet and warm as a buttery summer day, spread over the woman’s face. “Marise,” she said. “My name is Marise.”