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When we reached the door, I stopped and looked at the group of ladies clustered near the fire. “Good day, ladies. Mrs. Higgins.” I dropped a shallow curtsy and hurried away, smiling as I heard Mrs. Higgins gasp behind me. At least she had enough sense to know when she was being insulted. If only it extended to not insulting others, she would be a half-decent companion.
When we reached the top of the stairs, Mary squeezed my hand. “You did not have to do that, Lizzy.”
“I know. But it felt good, did it not?”
We giggled and ran off to our room, pretending things were not as bleak as they were.
We did not speak of it again, but I could tell Mary was greatly disturbed by all that had happened.
She could hardly bear to look at Jane. Beautiful Jane, with the same big, blue eyes and the same rosebud mouth. The same thick, golden hair that shone in the sun. The same long, graceful neck. The same dainty ears and delicate hands.
Only Jane was not marred by scars from her feet to her forehead. Jane was not stared at, and whispered about, and looked on with pity. Jane was living the life Mary should have had, the life she had been robbed of.
Because of me. Because Jane had been my favorite sister, and I had wished to check on her. I had not bothered with Kitty and Mary. I could lie and tell myself I was in a hurry—I did not want to get caught. I was only a child, only six years old. I had not even known my own power!
But that would not make it any easier for Mary to look at herself in the mirror. It would not make it easier for her to prepare for her coming out, knowing she was unlikely to find a suitor, or even a dance partner.
I was so frustrated with this state of affairs, so distraught by my own failure, that one night I decided to try to remove one of Mary’s scars. We shared a chamber, as Jane had her own as the eldest, and Kitty and Lydia were still in the nursery. When Mary came out in a few months, we would receive our own chambers, but for now, I shared with my next youngest sister. Moving quietly, I left my bed and went to Mary’s, sitting slowly on the edge of the mattress. I lifted the counterpane from the foot of the bed and placed one of her feet in my lap. Her left foot had four scars along the top, two of them small and pale and the other two larger and more visible.
I placed my hand on her skin, making sure I touched all four scars, and focused as much as I could on what I was doing. I hummed softly, not wishing to wake my sister, and stayed thus for nearly an hour. I might not be able to remove the scars, but I could encourage the skin around them to grow. At least I thought I could. That was what I focused on. I lit a candle and looked as closely as I dared—thankful that Mary was a deep sleeper—and the two small scars were nearly gone. The two larger ones were now smaller and faded, but still visible.
I would try again tomorrow night and see if I could get rid of them completely.
The next night, I tried my plan again. I worked on the same foot for an hour and when I was done, the small scars were entirely gone and the larger ones were barely noticeable. This was progress indeed!
Knowing it would take time and delicacy, I told Mary I was cold and asked if I might sleep with her. She looked at me oddly. The weather was temperate and I never complained of a chill, but she said yes regardless. Once Mary was asleep, and knowing she was expecting my presence, I scooted close and reached my hand out for her forehead. She had three particularly vicious scars there and I knew they bothered her immensely.
I rested my hand as gently as I could and set to work. I hummed so softly I could barely hear it, but I had become so used to doing it that it was hard to refrain. Besides, I could not shake the feeling that it helped somehow, though I did not know for certain.
I continued for above an hour, then fell into an exhausted sleep. The next morning, I observed Mary in the early morning light and could see the scars were faded, and I was encouraged to continue.
Not wanting to make her look odd—a clear forehead and scars everywhere else might look strange—I focused on her neck the following night. She was on her side, facing away from me, and it was the perfect opportunity. Jane’s neck always looked so elegant with her hair swept up and a curl hanging down. I wished for Mary to experience the same.
The night after that, Mary was cold and snuggled into my side, and I sent energy to everywhere I could feel her body touching mine, as well as where my hand came up to lay on her cheek as she rested it on my shoulder.
I continued each night, working on Mary’s scars for an hour or more, always on different parts of her body, and one daring night, I sat on my knees beside her, a hand on either cheek. If she awoke, I planned to tell her that she had been feverish and I was trying to cool her. Or perhaps I would say I had been praying for her.
Thankfully, she did not awaken, and I stayed in that position for two hours, not knowing when I would have the opportunity again.
After a month of regular ministrations, my sister Jane noticed something different about our sister.
“Mary,” she said at breakfast, “you look lovely this morning. Have you done something new with your hair?”
Mary looked at her in surprise. “Me? No, no I haven’t,” she stuttered.
“Well, you look very fine today,” said Jane with a bright smile.
“Thank you,” said Mary shyly.
After breakfast, I saw her looking at herself carefully in the glass in the hall. My mother kept it near the front door so that we might repair our appearance upon arrival or departure, and it received excellent light in the early part of the day.
Mary turned her face this way and that, then pulled her skin and poked at her face, and ran her fingers along her neck.
“Are you well, dearest?” I asked softly.
She startled. “Yes, thank you. Only,” she hesitated, “do I look different to you?”
“Different how?”
