A Delicate Web (gxg) | ONC2020 |

4. burn scars

chapter four: burn scars

word count: 1323

The next day, I wear golden silks that shimmer when I move. My parents have made it clear that I'm expected to dress like nobility, which is why my vigilante outfit stays tucked safely in the back of my expansive closet. The idea of their daughter dressed head-to-toe in dark-toned men's clothing is unthinkable to my parents.

Waiting for Gemini to arrive, I stare at my reflection in the smart mirror in my bedroom, ignoring the glowing white lines that trace my form and give me comments on what to wear that'll flatter my shape.

Every one of my muscles aches, a dull, pounding pain that has settled deep into my bones. I've gotten pretty good at ignoring that part of the job, at walking and moving as though I'm not sore from head to toe, and hiding bruises under makeup or long sleeves.

Now, I tilt my head to one side and push aside the long red hair I got from my mother. I stopped checking the scars for signs of improvement a long time ago, but I still can't resist eyeing them over whenever I'm in front of a mirror. The years-old burn wound is huge and shrivelled and pink, trailing from underneath the collar of my lace top and up along the side of my neck in blotchy patches, then finally ending near the cheekbone on the right side of my face. Underneath my clothes, the scarring continues down the right side of my body in huge portions, finally reaching and end near my kneecap.

There are ways to get rid of the scarring completely, but I only rejected those options out of spite. My mother and father said it was unsightly and unattractive to look at, and that any princess would have them removed immediately so she wouldn't be a disgrace.

I don't like the scars, but as long as my parents think they can dictate how I look, I'm happy to keep them.

The rest of my appearance I got from my father—I'm all long and bony arms and legs and painfully sharp features. I don't have "a jawline you could cut yourself on" or "strong cheekbones," I just look half-starved and always angry, with eyes that are too big for my face, but in a desperate, burning way. In the elegant finery of my day-to-day wear, I look awkward and out of place, like a wolf in sheep's clothing, like I'd always rather be anywhere but here.

One of the many smart-surfaces in my room chimes, and I accept the message, listening to the voice of the head butler fill the space.

"Miss Freeling? A young lady by the name of Gemini Davis is here to see you."

Young lady. As though we aren't both seventeen, not even legal adults yet. The politeness everyone uses around me is enough to choke on.

I switch into the cool, confident tone I use in public. "Thank you, Jones. Please escort her to my room."

The word room doesn't paint an accurate picture. My chambers are more of a suite, making up the entirety of the third floor of the Freeling palace. There's an expansive parlour area, my bedroom, a bathroom, a balcony, and a kitchen, which I've taken to using more often since I stopped wanting to eat with my family.

I've made my way to the junction between the kitchen and the parlour when the door slides open, but it's not the girl from last night who greets me. Instead, the king of the Northerns strides in, heading directly for me. I push myself to my full height and jut out my chin, but he grabs my arm with enough force to make me wince.

I could probably throw him over my head and land a few solid punches on the way, but something about my father's presence freezes me like a deer caught in headlights.

"I know you snuck out last night. What was that all about?"

I swallow, barely able to force myself to meet his eyes.

"I didn't. You don't know what you're talking about."

"I know damn well. You out partying? Doing drugs?"

"Do I look like I've been doing crack to you?" I shoot back.

Before he can reply, the door opens again, this time to reveal Jones and the much smaller Gemini. Realizing we have an audience, my father's hand drops from my arm as though the scars there are still hot enough to scorch his palm, and I rub away the throbbing pain.

"Maud, who is this?" He asks briskly.

"No one," I reply, pushing past him. "Thank you, Jones. Gemini, please follow me to the parlour."

My father shoots me a look that says we'll talk about this later. And by that, of course, I mean that he'll yell and I'll listen. He doesn't like visits with reporters that he doesn't know about, or won't be there for, and it's impossible to mistake Gemini for anything else, with the digital notepad tucked under her arm. He won't cause a scene, though, not in front of her.

He lets himself out of my room and I escort Gemini to the parlour, which honestly could be better referred to as a living room. When we enter, I notice with no large amount of surprise the way her eyes widen and she stares at her surroundings. Everyone reacts that way.

One of the walls is almost completely taken up by a huge, muted holoscreen playing in the background, and two others are made entirely of crystal clear synth-glass. The ceiling stretches high overhead, twice the height of a normal roof, and a door in one of the glass walls opens to a large balcony with several white lounge chairs and wicker tables. Inside, there's a cluster of cream coloured sofas sitting on soft white smart-carpet that gives off ripples of pale grey wherever it's stepped on. The one wall that isn't glass or screen is decorated with million-dollar paintings depicting forests and mountain ranges and waterfalls, facets of the gem that is the natural world. A gem most have never gotten to see—certainly not myself. I've never been outside of Capital City.

I take a seat on the end of one of the sofas and lift my leg to rest one of my feet against its fake-leather surface, sprawling my other arm out on the cushion behind me. Gemini sits down on an armchair diagonal to me, with both of us facing out one of the glass walls. Outside, the city is a teeming grey mass, alive with activity both above and below our level. The sun is a pale yellow disc behind the layer of smog in the sky.

"Can I get you anything to drink?" I offer, waving towards a cooler set into the floor right next to my sofa. At my gesture, the top fizzles away, releasing a trickle of cold fog into the room.

Gemini shakes her head. "No thanks."

I select a bottle for myself and pop the cork. Bubbles steam and fizz to the surface in streams of effervescence. Opting out of a glass, I choose to drink straight from the cold glass mouth of the bottle.

I give her a wide gesture, and a lift of my shoulders, reminding myself I can't be too friendly with her, too familiar. She's met the vigilante, but she hasn't met Maud Freeling. And Maud Freeling hasn't met her.

"Well, what do you want to know?"

She glances down at her faintly glowing digipad on her lap, and I notice that her eye makeup today is a brilliant kyanite blue. She looks back up at me, and suddenly my carefully cultivated confidence evaporates in a single breathless rush. It's like her dark, almost black eyes are drawing me in, and for a moment, I find myself thinking that maybe the night sky used to be the colour of her eyes.