The girl never had felt love before, but she knew it without hesitation. His eyes were the brightest that she had ever seen. He had the gait of a gypsy and the confidence of a king, and his auburn hair was fire in the sunlight.

She bit her lip when she saw him, and watched, knowing he could not see her – for although she was in the full sunlight, her white ceremonial robes reflecting the light like a mirror, her face was plain, her mousy brown hair dull, her shoulders sloped, her legs not long enough.

And he just walked right past her, as she knew he would.

That was all right; wanting him for herself was like trying to reach the moon.

-*-*-*-

When she saw him with the woman, her heart stopped dead.

That woman was beautiful, her skin rosy and soft like the petals of a flower, her hair glossy and black, and she wore ebony ceremonial robes, like a princess’s. She walked with her head held high and took the man’s arm, and together they strode through the town as if they owned it.

The woman only looked, and said nothing; but every few moments, the man would bend his neck (and the girl’s eyes traced along his skin; she was surprised he could not feel her gaze wrapping around him, trying to hold him) and whisper something delicate in the woman’s ear. She would smile and play with a loose string of her robes in her fingertips and laugh, her hands threading through her hair and letting the light glint off it.

The girl didn’t watch them any more that day.

-*-*-*-

But, by chance and chance only, she stumbled by his house that night. The fire burned low in his fireplace, but the outside was dark as pitch and, crouching by the window, the girl knew she could not be seen.

It was a hot, humid summer night, and the air tasted like a thunderstorm, and she could tell the fire was up only for light and not heat; they had let it burn down. Still, through the open window, the girl could smell bitter ashes and a combination of other things – sweat, perfume, and a scent she could not identify, sweet and pungent and fresh.

The woman and the man were standing, looking into each other’s eyes; the girl thought she knew what would come next, but to her surprise the man stepped back and looked at her with narrowed eyes – as if he was trying to focus his gaze; he tiled his head like a painter surveying his work – and the woman just looked at him, a silly blank smile on her red-painted lips.

He stepped towards her then, his hands outstretched – but they went to her face, his thumbs going along her cheeks, pushing so hard against the woman’s cheekbones that the girl, watching, winced in pain; his fingers were on her eyes then, and next her lips, touching, caressing, molding.

Molding. That was the right word; for when he pulled his hands away from the spot, it was different: the cheekbones pushed up, the eyes enlarged, the irises lighter, the eyebrows ever so slightly thicker and less curved. As he ran his hands through the woman’s hair, it turned from a silky, straight black to a wiry red-brown, curling and twisting around his fingers as they worked their way down from the roots to the ends.

When he had finished, the only thing that was the same about her was the night-black robe, and, shaking, the girl stood up – and something in that movement caught the man’s eye, and as his gaze snapped over, he saw her, and froze: then ran.

He grabbed her shoulders when the two, the man and girl, met outside his house, she quaking beneath his touch. He didn’t even know her name. Girl, he said, you don’t know what you’ve seen.

And she shook her head: she really didn’t.

Girl, he said again, don’t tell, don’t tell a soul.

He had never asked her what her name was, or where she was from, or who her parents were, or why her robes were ripped and burned; but, if he had, he would have known that she could not tell even if she wanted to.

And as he finally let her go, she laughed a silent laugh and ran off into the night.

-*-*-*-

She saw them a few days later, and this time his companion was fair-haired and as elegant and slender as a willow tree. The woman pointed and grinned like a child or an idiot; but the man’s eyes got huge. Leaving the graceful woman a few paces behind, he approached the girl, a forced smile plastered on his face.

I can mold you, too, he told her, his eyes on hers. I can make you beautiful, in any way you wish.

That was the first time in her life the girl wished she could speak to him. Before, she had known that even if she’d had a voice in her throat she would have wasted it in fear; but now she wanted to shout.

Her narrowed eyes and clenched fists were enough of an answer for him, all the same, but the man still glanced over his shoulder as he walked away: Don’t tell.

Good thing she’d found that out quickly, hmm? It was terrifying, imagining what he would have wanted to do to her…

And now, safe and alone, she could only wonder at it : that this was what would make him happy – fake women too afraid, too stupid, to have voices? If he had wanted a mute girl, she could have helped him there; but now she could only laugh, and laugh, and laugh, because she knew she was too good to let his hands improve her.