Clara's trembling fingers clutched at my mask, her triumphant sneer visible even through the filth coating her face. I reached out and snatched it back from her with unexpected quickness, surprising even myself with the forceful motion.
"You won't be taking this from me again," I said, securing the mask over my scarred face with practiced movements.
Clara's mouth fell open in shock. She wasn't used to me fighting back. For years, I'd been her favorite punching bag, enduring her cruelty in silence. Not anymore.
I turned to her maid, Clara Meadows, who hovered uncertainly near the doorway, eyeing the mess with dismay.
"You," I pointed at her. "Bring more maids. Your mistress is filthy and needs a thorough cleaning."
The maid bobbed a quick curtsy. "Yes, Miss Isabella."
"It's almost Duchess of Blackwood to you," I corrected her, feeling a strange thrill at saying the words aloud.
