The collar of my new uniform is not high enough to conceal my scar. The uniform, like that of all female palace staff, is a long-sleeved black dress worn over a petticoat and blouse. The stiff white sleeves are secured with shining brass buttons, and my status as a clerk is denoted by a cabochon quartz brooch affixed to my blouse collar. Despite its apparent simplicity, the quality of this uniform likely puts it at a similar price to the starlight-patterned evening gown that hangs in my closet. I would not dare attempt to alter it, and I doubt even Mama has the skill to add more fabric to the collar.
For a while, I experiment with my makeup to try covering the scar. My regression novels told me that it is wise to continue the same habits of your previous life so no one grows suspicious that something is out of the ordinary. I have continued trimming my hair and slurring complex words, both habits that I plan to “outgrow” gradually over the next year. But I have neglected makeup. It is a pain in the ass to put on every morning and, as I know now, just a scam targeting women’s insecurities. I cannot recall what all of the bottles contain, or how the formulas might stick to the skin, or how difficult the stains are to get out of fabric. The last thing I need are inexplicable brown stains on my uniform collar. After testing several shades on the back of my hand and comparing them to the color on my neck, I find nothing close enough, and give up.
Outside, it is still dark, barely sunrise. Martha wishes me to start at eight o’clock on the dot, so she has sent a carriage to pick me up well in advance. From my open window, I can hear the horses stomping impatiently and spy the coachman sneaking a huff of his pipe. My luggage (most of it books) has already been loaded, so he is just waiting for me.
I curse beneath my breath. I have nothing in my bedroom that will help me, so I dash across the hall to Mama’s room.
She is brushing her waist-length hair at her vanity, a rickety old thing we salvaged from the side of the road and painted a blush-pink color. Despite its uneven paint job and one broken mirror, it seems right at home in the chaos of Mama’s room. Her bed is never made. Bottles of ale, some empty and some half-full, crowd every flat surface. Sewing projects, mostly of patchwork fabric scavenged from scrap piles, are scattered everywhere; I can barely walk through the debris without tripping on some clutter. Although I know she speaks the truth about my father, I cannot help but still think of Mama as…to put it plainly, mentally unwell. I am glad Pansy, who is always looking for an excuse to leave his house, has agreed to help her out in my absence. Maybe he can clean this room.
I knock on the doorframe, and Mama turns around. “Oh, Ellie,” she breathes. “You look lovely.”
“Mama, do you have a ribbon I can borrow?” I ask.
“What for? Your hair looks fine.”
“To cover the scar. I’m not allowed to wear jewelry, but maybe this won’t count.”
She glances to my wrist. I follow her gaze to the Northman’s bracelet, which still stubbornly refuses to come undone. I am reluctant to cut it, since Lucienne told me it was a gift, and I feel uncomfortable about ruining a gift. “What about that bracelet?”
“I still can’t get it off,” I remind her. “I’ll just…tuck it under my sleeve, or something.”
Even though Mama is still sitting down, I reach across her lap to open the vanity drawer. The inside is fit to bursting with clutter, like the rest of the room, but I manage to find a black strip of satin that will do nicely for a choker.
“No one will notice,” my mother tries to persuade me. “I could hardly see the scar until you pointed it out.”
“But you could still see it,” I respond, craning my neck awkwardly to see my reflection around the cracks in the mirror. I struggle to fasten the ribbon for a few moments before Mama sighs and stands to help me.
“You could just say it’s from a childhood accident. Give some excuse—it was traumatic, so you don’t want to talk about it,” she says.
“I already thought of that. What crazy accident would give me this kind of scar?”
“Hmm. A garrote wire, maybe?”
I gasp. “Mother!”
“A thin one. Pulled just taut enough to scar. What?”
“Have you been reading my murder mysteries again?”
“Well, of course! They’re fascinating. A little gory, but a little blood never bothered me. I gave birth to you in a back alley outhouse, you know; I cut your umbilical cord with my own two hands and a razor.”
“Gods, it’s a miracle we didn’t die of sepsis.”
We both laugh dryly at that. She fastens the ribbon in place and tucks the loose ends beneath my collar, then comes around to look at me from the front. I stand almost a full head taller than her. I get a distinct impression of déjà vu. Seven years ago, we stood in much the same place, except instead of a clerk’s uniform, Mama helped me lace the stay of my traveling frock. I had been much angrier with her then, the resentment from our previous night’s argument fresh in my memory. I had not bothered to say much except a stiff goodbye. What a heartless bastard am I.
I do not realize I am crying until Mama reaches up to wipe a tear from my cheek. Then, the floodgates open. I hug her tight.
“I’ll write every day,” she promises me.
I sniffle. “I knew you would say that,” I whisper. “You said it last time.”
“Oh, Eloise. I can’t bear to see you off. If I see that carriage drive away…”
“...you’ll run after it and jump inside,” I finish, with a choked laugh. “You said that last time too.”
It is with the greatest effort that I pull away. I kiss her cheek and hug her one last time. Then I am off. As I get into the carriage, I do not look back. If I do, I fear that I will jump outside and run back home.