Chapter 26

“Yes?” “Nice throw.” His grin was gone so fast she must have imagined it. When Sam looked at her reflection in the mirror the next morning, she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Her nose, while unbroken, was red and twice its normal size. Bruised purple-black and puffy, her left eye was so swollen that only the tiniest sliver of eyeball peeked through the lids. Her bottom lip was split, and a diagonal gash ran just under her right nostril. Inflammation from multiple contusions rendered the sharp definition of her jawbone round and uneven. She was, for the first time in her life, painfully ugly. It was pathetic. Here she was, gallivanting across the country disguised as a boy, yet this was the first time the face staring back at her in the mirror truly bothered her. She didn’t recognize this face. Braeden was already several bites into his oats by the time she made it downstairs for breakfast. He assessed her coolly, registering her injuries with a stony face. Great, Braeden was angry with her, too. “Please don’t make that face, Sam. Some of us are trying to eat,” Tristan said, buttering a piece of bread. “I’m not making a fa—” Sam scowled at the jest. “Bounder.” Tristan raised an eyebrow. “Watch yourself, trainee. You should be showering me with compliments in order to get back into my good graces.” Sam rolled her eyes. “Lovely. Well, you certainly can’t meet the duke looking as you do.” A seed of hope took root in her chest. “Really?” she asked, forcing disappointment into her voice. “What a shame.” Braeden’s spoon paused halfway to his mouth, and a small snort escaped his nose. “What?” she snapped. Braeden shrugged slightly, pointedly not looking at her. Tristan looked back and forth between the two of them. “Trouble in paradise, eh? Braeden, I take it you didn’t condone Sam’s activities last night.” “No, I did not,” said Braeden shortly. “Well, what’s done is done. Right, Sam?” “Why are you suddenly so cheerful about it?” she asked suspiciously. Tristan grinned. “Because I’ve come up with a brilliant solution.” Four hours later, Sam stared dubiously at the dozens of small pots and jars on the vanity. This was Tristan’s solution? “Now, don’t you furrow your brow, Master Haywood. You’ll create wrinkles in your pretty skin.” Sam scoffed. “Are you blind, Leona? I don’t think I need to be worrying about wrinkles in my ‘pretty skin’ right now.” “Nonsense,” said Leona, her impressive bosom all but falling out of her dress as she bent over to pat cream across Sam’s abused cheeks. “I can tell you're right handsome under them bruises. Almost as pretty as a woman.” Sam found herself blushing at the courtesan’s practiced words. “You probably say that to all your…customers.” Was that the proper word for it? Sam hadn’t spent much—well, any—time in the company of painted ladies. Leona glared at her, and then glanced back at Tristan. “This one needs to learn how to accept praise.” She turned her heavily made-up face back to Sam. “And you aren’t a customer. I’m doing this as a favor for Paladin Lyons.” “You are the best, Leo,” Tristan said flirtatiously. Sam wrinkled her nose. “Don’t think very highly of me or mine, do you, Master Haywood?” asked Leona, narrowing her plucked eyebrows. “It’s not that. It’s…” Sam floundered. “It’s all these cosmetics. I’m not used to wearing makeup, is all. It doesn’t seem very…manly.” Leona seemed to accept that response, and resumed applying various ointments and powders to Sam’s face. “You’d be surprised how many men use a little o’ this and that now and again.” “Really?” Leona nodded. “Usually it’s to hide a love bite from the missus, but sometimes a man just wants to pretty himself up a bit.” “Have you ever made up Tristan?” Sam asked curiously. Tristan squawked in protest. Leona let out a husky laugh. “Some men don’t need any help looking pretty.” “A high compliment from the loveliest lady in Haywood.” Tristan winked at the courtesan, who giggled in response. Sam’s stomach churned again. Gods, what was wrong with her? “Alright, Master Haywood?” Leona asked, her mouth puckered in concern. “Aye, I’m fine. Am I as pretty as Paladin Lyons yet?” Leona chuckled. “Just about.” She took a fine paintbrush and dipped it in a thick green paste. “Helps with the redness,” she explained when she saw Sam’s skeptical gaze. She pressed a rounded horsetail brush into a white crystallized powder, and then mixed the substance into a small dish of rosewater. She painted Sam’s skin carefully, her touch quick, gentle. “All done,” Leona said finally. “Couldn’t do nothing about the swelling, but at least your face is all one color.” Sam turned to face the mirror, and turned her head this way and that. Her skin was a uniform shade of porcelain, and Leona had even managed to hide the cuts at her mouth. Her eyes were still two different sizes, her jaw line swollen and her nose unusually bulbous, but that was good, necessary, to fool her father. She looked uninjured, but best of all, she didn’t look like herself. “You’re a genius, Leona,” she said, and hugged her impulsively. Leona seemed taken aback initially, but returned the hug after a moment’s hesitation. “Good luck with the duke, Master Haywood. You too, Paladin Lyons. I think you’re going to need it.”