Circe stood before the full-length mirror as the maids bustled about the adjoining bathing chamber, filling the large tub with warm water. The faint scent of bath oils drifted into the room, cedar wood and vanilla, mingling with the lingering chill clinging to her wet skin. She raised a trembling hand, her cold fingers grazing the unmarked skin of her cheek.
There should have been a cut there, a sharp, ugly slice marring her right cheekbone. She remembered the sting, the warmth of blood trickling down her face. Yet now, as she stared at her reflection, there was nothing but smooth, unblemished skin staring back at her.
It was impossible.
The unease had been gnawing at her all throughout the carriage ride back to the manor, her chest tightening into knots. The sensation only grew the more she thought about it, threatening to overwhelm her.
