"Your view of yourself is inaccurate, Cynthia." Having revealed her own rank, Lily had dropped Cynthia's title. "You don't look very different now from when you had the illusion spell in place. Your features haven't changed, nor the shape of your face. Your hair isn't quite as bright a gold, but it's still a lovely thick blond. Though your complexion is no longer perfect, it's very good. Your figure hasn't changed at all, and believe me, men notice figures even more than faces."

Cynthia stared at the mirror and tried to see what Lily was describing. "Even if what you say is true, my face is still scarred."

"Yes, it is," Lily said calmly. "All students who are sent to Lackland are scarred in some way. You are not the only one whose scars are visible. But your scar is much less disfiguring than you think. It emphasizes your high cheekbones, rather like the face patches women wore in my grandmother's time to call attention to good features."

Cynthia examined the scar, trying to see it as Lily did. She had done her best not to look ever since the original injury. It-wasn't as bad as she remembered. The line was thin and not ragged, and it had faded some. Though her face was still scarred, perhaps she wasn't as ugly as she believed. "What can you do for fear?"

"You're the daughter of a duke. Your ancestors were warriors," Lily replied. "When you're unsure of your welcome, hold your head high and remember that it doesn't matter what others think."

"But I'm no longer a duke's daughter," Cynthia said bitterly.

"Though he may have legally disowned you, he can't take the warrior blood from your veins. You still have the heritage if not the title," Lily said firmly. "And though he has behaved badly, he has enough family pride to pay Lackland Abbey's fees."

"The only family pride he feels is for the children of his second wife." Cynthia's mouth twisted. "They are all safely nonmagical. He has obliterated every trace of me and my mother. The fees and all my other expenses are paid out of the money left to me by my mother's aunt. If I died, the duke wouldn't spend a shilling for candles." Cynthia tried to keep her voice even, but she couldn't conceal the pain.

"The man's a fool," Lily said tartly. "But you aren't. You're a strong, brave young woman who is beautiful without being perfect. You have the potential to build a full, satisfying life, or to wallow in anger and bitterness. Neither path is easy, but the first is far more enjoyable. It's up to you how you use your gifts."

The older woman got to her feet, catching Cynthia's gaze with her own. "You can hide here for a little while longer if you wish. Or you can come and join the rest of us. The choice is yours."

Quietly she left the room.

Cynthia stared blindly at the remnants of the food. Rain still lashed the windows though the worst of the storm had passed. Laughter sounded downstairs, where Lily and her family and guests were enjoying themselves.

You have the potential to build a full, satisfying life, or to wallow in anger and bitterness. Anger wasn't doing her much good. But the thought of going downstairs without the protection of her illusion magic made her want to crawl under the bed and never come out.

If she was going to be miserable, she might as well be miserable where there was food, because, blast it, even after consuming almost everything on the tray, she was still hungry. Setting the tray aside, she slid from the bed, shivering a little. The house benefited from Lily's hearth-witch abilities, but Cynthia wore only a shift.

She wondered who had undressed her. She had a brief, shocking image of Jack's hands touching her, followed by a rush of heat. She wasn't sure if it was outrage, or ... something else.

She reminded herself that Lily would not have allowed her son to undress an unconscious guest. Besides, Jack would have been too exhausted to care.

Her poor ruined riding habit had vanished, but in the clothespress, she found a lightweight corset, slippers, and a simple blue wool dress. Probably the garments were Rachel's, since the two of them were close to the same height.

Her hair was still somewhat damp and it fell around her shoulders in unruly waves, so she brushed the tangles out. There was a blue ribbon on the dressing table, clearly chosen to go with the gown, so she tied her hair back.

Then she forced herself to study her image in the narrow mirror set in the clothespress door. She was shocked to see that she looked quite presentable. Not beautiful and certainly not perfect, but the gown was a becoming shade of blue and the simple style suited her.

In fact, the image in the mirror wasn't too different from what she was used to. Lily had been right. Her hair was still blond, her complexion was good, and her figure had never required illusion magic. There was still the ugly scar, but it wasn't as horribly obvious as she'd always believed.

After drawing a deep breath, she left the safety of the bedroom and headed downstairs. Following the laughter led her to the dining room. The supper was informal with the Rainfords and the French family gathered around the table.

Absolute silence fell when Cynthia entered the room. For a horrified instant she felt hideous and she almost bolted.

Then the Comte du Bouchard rose swiftly. He was lean and dark-haired, with tired brown eyes.

He bowed deeply to her. "My Lady Cynthia," he said in halting English. "Words cannot express the depths of my gratitude. I am grateful you have taken no harm from your heroic endeavors on behalf of me and my family." He smiled a little. "You are as beautiful as you are brave."

She studied his face. He didn't have the dazzled look she often saw in men's eyes, but he did think she was attractive. He wasn't repulsed by her scarred face! Relieved, she said, "I'm glad I could help."

Bouchard's children slipped from their chairs and approached Cynthia. His son, Philippe, was perhaps ten. Dark-haired and dark-eyed, he looked very like his father. He even bowed exactly the same way as he murmured thanks in French.

The little girl's fair hair must have come from her late mother. Cynthia wasn't good at guessing children's ages. Three, perhaps? Four? Adorably earnest, Marie-Annette curtsied. "Merci, milady," she said in a sweet voice.

Cynthia smiled, her mood lifting. For all her flaws, this was one job she'd done well. "Without Jack, I could have done nothing." She risked a glance at him. He was sitting at the end of the table opposite his mother, his expression wary.

Turning to him, Cynthia said baldly, "I'm sorry, Jack. I didn't mean to ... do what I did. It was an accident."

His expression eased. "I should have known better than to try to coax a wildcat out before she was ready." He got to his feet. "I'll get another chair. I'll bet you're still hungry. I'm going to be eating for the next week to make up for all the energy I burned."

"I'm glad I'm not the only one!" Cynthia moved around the table to the new place setting that was being laid next to Jack. What she had thought impossible was turning out to be easy.

Lackland Abbey would be harder. Much, much harder. But she'd worry about that later. For tonight, at least, she was among friends.

Friends who didn't seem to think she was ugly.

CHAPTER 17.

Lackland Abbey was still almost deserted when Tory returned after a tiring winter journey. She'd left Layton Place sooner than planned because it was hard to be cheerful when her heart was bleeding. The heaviness of the suppression spell suited her mood.

It was mid-evening so the matron on duty had given Tory a lantern to light her way. She blinked when she reached her room and found a sign on the door. At the top was a large black "X." Underneath in Cynthia's handwriting it said, Plague Spot!

Go away!

Leave food trays on floor.

A plundered tray sat beside the door. Tory wondered if Cynthia was unwell, or just wanted to avoid the company of the other girls. She'd been angry when Tory left, and might be angry still.

Cautiously Tory opened the door and stepped inside. She was unsurprised to see that her roommate's possessions had expanded onto Tory's bed and desk.

Setting her canvas carrying bag on her desk, she glanced around the room. "Cynthia, are you here? Have you been ill?"

"Go away!" Cynthia was a lump in her bed and a brusque voice.

Ah, yes, home again. Tory grinned and said in her most irritatingly cheerful voice, "You can't throw me out. I live here."

The lump in the bed shifted. "Tory?"

"Yes, and I've brought provisions back from my brother's house." Tory removed her outer garments and hung them in her clothespress. "Would you like some elderberry wine and cakes?"

Still buried completely, Cynthia asked, "How was the wedding?"

"Really lovely." It had been, too. Tory had been simultaneously glad to be present even though she sat quietly to one side, and miserable at the contrast between her own situation and the radiant happiness of Sarah and Lord Roger. "I think my sister and her husband will suit very well. I assume things were quiet here?"

"Not entirely." After a long silence, Cynthia said, "Your mother's pudding was well received at the Rainfords' Christmas dinner."

"I'm glad. Were you there, too, or did the pudding attend on its own?"

"I was there." Cynthia sighed heavily, then pushed the covers away. "I suppose I can't hide from you if you're going to insist on staying here."

"Well, it's my room as well as yours," Tory pointed out.

"If you laugh at me, I'll never forgive you!"

Cynthia sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, her expression wary. Her blond hair was in a long braid and she wore a warm bathrobe over her shift, but there was nothing to inspire laughter in her appearance. Except ...

Tory frowned. "Did you have an accident? Your cheek looks scratched."

"It's ... it's complicated." Cynthia drew a shaky breath, looking on the verge of tears. "I have to tell someone, so I suppose it will have to be you."

Cynthia was as gracious as always, Tory thought dryly as she dug into her bag for the elderberry wine and the box of hazelnut shortbread. She had two glasses in her clothespress, so she poured them each some wine.

Crossing the room to give a glass to Cynthia, she said, "Speak and I shall listen, and not tell anyone else if you don't want me to."

This close, she saw that the line on her roommate's cheek was not a scratch, but a long-healed scar. Confused, she looked harder, and realized that Cynthia's appearance was subtly different. Not quite believing what she was seeing, she asked, "Have you been using illusion magic and now you've stopped?"

"Is it that obvious?" Cynthia wailed as she broke into tears.

Tory hastily took the glass of wine from the other girl's hand, then sat in the chair by Cynthia's bed. "It's not obvious, but that scar isn't new. I just remembered that when we returned through the mirror, for a moment it seemed as if your features were melting." She shivered. "It was very strange, but so quick I thought I must have imagined it."

"You didn't." Cynthia wrapped her blankets around herself and began a disjointed account of her holiday. "I've been using illusion magic constantly ever since ... ever since I got this scar. Going through the mirror was so draining that for a moment I couldn't maintain my appearance."

As Cynthia continued, Tory listened quietly, not wanting to interrupt the flow of words. So the other girls had been dreadful, Jack Rainford had dragged Cynthia to Swallow Grange, she'd turned out to be a powerful hearth witch-Tory felt a pang of envy-Cynthia and Jack had rescued a French refugee family from drowning, and in the process Cynthia had burned out her power.

"I've been hoping that my magic would recover enough so that I could disguise my face before classes start again," Cynthia finished brokenly. "But it hasn't. It might never come back!"

"I've never heard of magic burning out permanently." Tory handed her roommate the elderberry wine and set the box of hazelnut shortbread on Cynthia's desk where they could both reach it. "According to Nick, it was a fortnight or so before Polly Rainford really began to recover. You've only had a few days."

"That's another thing. Nick hasn't sent a message in weeks." Cynthia helped herself to two pieces of shortbread. "Jack is getting really worried."

Tory bit her lip, concerned. "There could be any number of reasons."

"None of them good," Cynthia said gloomily. She took two more pieces of shortbread. "I've been hiding out here since I returned from Swallow Grange. Since I put the sign on the door the maids leave food outside, but it's never enough."

"You'll have to come out when classes start," Tory warned.

"Tell everyone I'm too sick!"

"If you don't emerge, eventually a teacher will come looking." Tory replenished their wine. "They'll wonder if I murdered you."

Cynthia gave a rusty crack of laughter. "The other girls would think you were justified if you did." Her brief levity vanished. "I'm praying that I'll be able to hide until I have enough magic to cover up at least the scar." Her hand went to her left cheek.

"Maybe I can help," Tory suggested. "I couldn't manage a full illusion spell here in the abbey before, but I might be able to conceal the scar until you can do it yourself."

Cynthia's face brightened. "That would be wonderful! I can't bear to have everyone see this ugly scar."

"It's not that noticeable, but I'm sure it feels horribly visible." Tory leaned forward and touched the scar. "If I can't do this, perhaps Elspeth can. She was planning to return tomorrow and she's better with illusions."

"She would probably tell me that humiliation is good for my character," Cynthia said tartly.

Tory smiled, then concentrated on summoning her magic to create the illusion of smooth, unmarred skin. To her regret, she had to use all the power available to her under the abbey suppression spell. Dropping the hearth-witch magic left her shivering with cold, but she was successful.

"There." She sat back, pleased with her effort. "That should hold you until you can conceal it on your own. The other changes in your appearance are too subtle to really be noticed." Privately she admitted to herself that she'd always found Cynthia's perfect appearance irritating. She was still intimidatingly pretty, but she looked more real.

Cynthia rose and carefully studied her appearance in her clothespress mirror. Touching her cheek, she said, "I can feel the scar, but as long as no one can see it, I'm all right. Thank you! I am so sick of being in this room."

Tory frowned thoughtfully. "A thought has occurred to me. Traveling through the mirror has been hardest for you."

"It almost killed me!" Cynthia shuddered. "Never again."

"I hope none of us do," Tory agreed, though she didn't know if they'd be that lucky. "I wonder if you had so much trouble going through the mirror because you were using your illusion magic. That might have interfered with the mirror magic."

Cynthia shrugged. "Perhaps, but there's no way to be sure since I'm certainly not going to travel through time again. I'll settle for passing through the refectory without having other girls sneer at me."

"I'll enjoy getting back to most of my classes," Tory said. "Except Miss Macklin, of course."

"Of course." Cynthia sat on her bed and took two more pieces of shortbread before Tory prudently closed the box and moved it out of reach. "I look forward to study sessions in the Labyrinth. You must be pining to see Allarde."

Tory winced at the unexpected mention of his name.

Cynthia frowned. "What's wrong? Surely Allarde didn't send a letter to your brother's house to end things between you! The lad is mad for you."

Tory squeezed her eyes shut, fighting tears. "His family seat is only a few miles from my brother's estate so we saw each other over the holiday. We rode over to Kemperton. When I saw how strongly he is connected to that land and realized that he'd be disowned if we stayed together, I told him we could no longer be together."

"Oh, Tory!" Cynthia stared at her. "How miserable for you. For both of you." She frowned. "Don't you ever get tired of being noble and self-sacrificing?"

"Cynthia, don't!" Feeling shattered, Tory kicked off her shoes and dived into her bed fully dressed. She pulled the covers over her head and buried her face in her pillow, completely understanding Cynthia's desire to hide from the world. Sharing her room with Molly, Tory hadn't allowed her grief to run free, which made this disintegration even worse.

Her bed sagged under Cynthia's weight. If her roommate tried to pull the covers off, Tory would scratch out her eyes.

Instead, Cynthia pushed a handkerchief under the blankets near Tory's hand. In a surprisingly gentle voice, she said, "I'm really sorry. Not only that it's over, but that he isn't even available for me." She patted the blanket in the vicinity of Tory's shoulder. "One thing every student at Lackland learns early is that no matter how dark things seem, they will get better."

The mattress creaked again as Cynthia moved away. Probably to finish off the box of shortbread. But as Tory wiped her nose with the handkerchief, she felt a little comforted.

It will get better.

Tory was so paralyzed by the thought of seeing Allarde again that she could barely force herself to return to the Labyrinth for their first post-holiday meeting. But she needed to see her friends.

She was so tense that a rabbit would have made her fall into hysterics, but Allarde made it easy for her. He didn't come to the session. Nor to the one two days later. Tory began to worry. He needed the group as much as she did, and she hated that she might have driven him away.

He came to the third session, arriving late and slipping in quietly. She didn't realize he was there until it was time for the closing circle and she felt his energy when everyone joined hands. She flinched at the familiar warmth, and hoped that no one noticed her reaction. After the circle he didn't stay for the eating and socializing that followed each session.