The room was small and cluttered, smelling of cheap rosewater and dust. It was a room in a boarding house on the edge of the city.
A woman stood before a cracked mirror. She was humming a soft, tuneless melody. She picked up a powder puff and patted her face, smoothing her skin until it was pale and flawless.
She smiled at her reflection.
It was Marissa's reflection that stared back at her.
The same dark hair, styled in the same loose curls. The same eyes. The same mole under the right eye—the perfect replica of Marissa.
She had spent hours perfecting the disguise. She had studied Marissa's face. She had memorized her walk, her posture, her cold, polite smile.
She turned to the bed where a pile of clothes lay. She picked out a dress. It was a simple, elegant gown of cream-colored silk with subtle embroidery. It was a near-perfect replica of the dress Marissa had worn the day before. She had spent her last coins bribing a seamstress to alter it overnight.
