Date: The 10th Day of the Month of Wind, Year 1107 of the Imperial Calendar.
Location: The Makeshift Operating Room (Aanya's Bedroom).
The sun had vanished completely, leaving the room illuminated only by the harsh, unwavering light of three oil lamps Silas Thorne had positioned around the chair.
"We begin," Thorne said.
The Alchemist did not have the bedside manner of a doctor. He moved with the precision of a butcher and the detachment of a mortician. He rolled up the sleeves of his gray robe, revealing arms stained with old chemical burns, a silent testament that what he was about to do was not gentle.
Aanya sat in the high-backed wooden chair. Her hands were gripping the armrests so tightly that her knuckles had turned the color of bone.
"Do you need restraints?" Thorne asked, holding up a pair of leather straps. "If you move, even a millimeter, the resin will set unevenly. The face will look melted. We will have to scrape it off and start again."
Aanya looked at the straps. They looked like the ones used on madmen in the asylum stories.
"No," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the hum of the wind outside. "I will not move."
"She will not move," Kael affirmed from the corner of the room. He was pacing, his boots clicking rhythmically on the floorboards. "She knows the cost. Five hundred gold pieces, Aanya. Do not sneeze. Do not twitch."
Elara stood closer, right beside the Alchemist's table. She wasn't looking at Aanya's eyes; she was looking at the scar. "Make it smooth, Master Thorne. Like porcelain. No texture."
"Silence," Thorne commanded.
He picked up a glass rod. He dipped it into the first vial, the Primer. It was a clear, acrid liquid that smelled of rotting lemons and bleach.
"This will strip the oils from your skin," Thorne narrated coldly. "It will feel cold. Then it will bite."
He touched the rod to Aanya's right cheek.
Hiss.
Aanya gasped. It didn't feel like water. It felt like ice that had been dipped in acid. It shocked her skin, sending a jolt of freezing pain straight into her jawbone. Her eyes watered instantly.
"Don't blink," Thorne ordered.
He swept the rod across the entire scarred surface, the cheek, the temple, the corner of the mouth. The liquid seeped into the crevices of the burn tissue, hunting down every nerve ending she had left.
Aanya's breath came in shallow, trembling gasps. It's just cold, she told herself. It's just cold.
"Now, the Filler," Thorne said.
He opened the second jar. This was the thick, flesh-colored paste. It looked innocuous, like bread dough. But as he stirred it, a wisp of gray smoke rose from the pot.
"The resin generates heat as it bonds," Thorne warned, loading a palette knife. "It must fuse with the dermis. Imagine, girl, that I am pouring hot wax onto you. You must not scream. Screaming distorts the facial muscles."
He brought the knife to her face.
The moment the paste touched her skin, the world turned white.
It wasn't heat. It was fire.
It felt as though he had taken a hot iron from a blacksmith's forge and pressed it against her face. The chemical reaction was violent. The resin ate into the top layer of her skin to anchor itself.
Aanya's back arched off the chair. Her mouth opened to let out a cry of agony.
"Don't!" Elara hissed, grabbing Aanya's shoulder and pinning her back down. "Hold it in! Think of the Emperor! Think of the palace!"
Aanya clamped her mouth shut. She bit her tongue. The taste of copper filled her mouth.
Pain is temporary. Posture is forever. Madame Rousseau's voice echoed in her mind, twisted and mocking.
Thorne worked quickly, ignoring her trembling body. He spread the burning paste over the scar, layer by agonizing layer. He filled in the deep pits where the boiling water had eaten her flesh years ago. He built up a new cheekbone. He smoothed the ridge near her eye.
Every stroke of the knife was a new wave of torture. The heat built and built until Aanya felt like her face was literally on fire. Tears leaked from her left eye, the good eye, and ran down her nose.
"Stop crying," Thorne muttered, wiping the tear away with a rough cloth before it could touch the resin. "Salt ruins the bond."
"I... I can't..." Aanya choked out through gritted teeth.
"You can," Kael said from the shadows. His voice wasn't angry anymore; it was desperate. "You have to, Aanya. We have nothing left. If this fails, we are beggars. Do you want to be a beggar? Do you want to live in the mud like a rat?"
Like a rat.
The image of Veer flashed in her mind. Veer, beaten in the mud. Veer, thrown into the street. Veer, eating an apple in the snow.
He survives the pain, she thought. He takes the beatings. He takes the hunger. If he can survive the cold, I can survive the heat.
She focused on that image. The boy with the iron rod. The boy who didn't cry.
Aanya stopped trembling. She forced her muscles to go limp. She surrendered to the fire.
"Good," Thorne grunted. "The structure is set. Now... the Curing."
He picked up a heavy iron lamp with a specialized blue flame. He brought it close to her face, dangerously close.
"This will harden the resin. It will shrink. It will feel tight. Like a vice."
He passed the flame over the wet paste.
The sensation shifted from burning to crushing. The mask tightened. It felt like a giant hand was squeezing her skull, crushing her right side. The skin underneath felt suffocated.
Aanya's vision blurred. The room swayed. The smell of the chemicals was making her dizzy. She wanted to pass out.
"Mother..." she whimpered.
Elara leaned in close. Her face was flushed with excitement, not concern. She was looking at the mask, watching the artificial skin smooth out under the heat.
"It's working," Elara whispered, her eyes wide and manic. "Look at it, Kael. It's... it's flawless. It's better than before. She's perfect."
She stroked Aanya's hair, but her eyes never left the fake cheek. "You are a good girl, Aanya. A very good girl. Just a little longer. You will be a Queen. You will have silk robes. You will have servants to fan you. You will never feel pain again."
Aanya closed her eyes. She didn't want silk robes. She just wanted the burning to stop. She wanted her mother to look at her, not the mask.
She loves the mask, Aanya realized with a heartbreaking clarity. She doesn't love the daughter underneath. She loves the lie.
"Done," Thorne announced.
He pulled the lamp away. He blew out the flame.
The sudden absence of heat left a throbbing, cold numbness on the right side of Aanya's face. It felt dead. It felt heavy, like she was wearing a piece of stone.
"Do not touch it for ten minutes," Thorne said, wiping his instruments. "It needs to cool."
The room was silent, save for the heavy breathing of three people.
Kael walked forward. He looked at his daughter. For the first time in seven years, he didn't look away in disgust. He stared. He smiled.
"Worth every coin," Kael breathed. "By the Gods, she is the most beautiful creature in Aethelgard."
He reached out and touched the fake cheek. Aanya flinched, but she couldn't feel his finger. The nerve endings were buried under the resin.
"Get the mirror," Elara commanded.
She brought the hand mirror. She shoved it into Aanya's hands.
"Look. See what we have made you."
Aanya lifted the mirror. Her hands were shaking so bad the reflection danced. She steadied it.
She looked.
The monster was gone. The scar, the map of her pain, the history of her life, was erased. In its place was a smooth, creamy, perfect cheek. It matched her left side perfectly. She looked like a doll. She looked like a painting.
She looked like a lie.
"It's... gone," Aanya whispered.
"No," Thorne corrected, snapping his satchel shut. "It is hidden. The scar is still there, girl. It will always be there. But now, the world will only see what it wants to see."
He turned to leave, his gray robes swirling.
"Remember the rule," he called out from the doorway. "No oils. One drop of Golden Lotus, and that face will melt off your skull faster than wax in a furnace."
"We remember," Kael said, not even looking at the Alchemist. He was too busy adoring his investment.
"Come, Aanya," Elara said, pulling her up from the chair. "Stand up. Let us see the profile. Lift your chin. Smile."
Aanya stood. She lifted her chin. She forced the corners of her mouth up. The mask moved with her, stiff but convincing.
"Perfect," her parents said in unison.
Aanya looked at the window. The reflection in the glass stared back, a beautiful, hollow stranger.
Inside, the burning had stopped. But a different kind of cold was setting in.
She was no longer Aanya. She was the Porcelain Bride. And the price of admission had been her skin.