An idea rose in her mind.
If ordinary methods could not save her, then she would go lower still.
She pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The room smelled of smoke, roots, and old magic. Shelves lined the walls, filled with jars of powders, teeth, feathers, dried eyes, and things Zara did not want to identify. In the center sat an old woman with grey hair and skin like dry bark. Her eyes were too bright for her age.
She looked up once.
Only once.
Then she smiled as if she had already read Zara's heart.
Without being asked, Zara spoke first.
"I will do anything," she said. Her voice sounded hoarse even to herself. "I want to be beautiful again."
The witch's smile widened slowly.
Her gaze drifted lower, past Zara's ruined face, past the blackened veins at her neck, down to her stomach. She looked for a long time, long enough to make Zara's chest tighten.
Then the witch clicked her tongue.
"What a pity," the old woman said. "Your womb is dead."
Zara's face twisted.
