The antiseptic smell of Master Marcus Wilkerson's clinic burned my nostrils as I paced the narrow hallway. How long would he make me wait? My daughter needed me.
"Lady Beatrix," Master Wilkerson finally appeared, his expression grave. "You may see her now, but I must warn you—she's in a fragile state."
"I understand," I replied, smoothing my skirts nervously. "How bad is her injury?"
He hesitated. "The cut near her eye was deep. I've done my best, but there will be scarring."
My stomach dropped. Scarring. The very word made me ill. "Will she... will her face...?"
"It won't be as severe as her sister's was," he replied carefully. "But yes, it will be noticeable."
I nodded stiffly and followed him down the corridor. Each step felt heavier than the last. What would I say to comfort her? Beauty had always been Clara's greatest asset—her weapon and shield in this cruel world.
