Prologue
Mother was smiling brightly.
That meant she should smile too. She’d learned that much.
Mother was angry at Father.
That meant she should frown like Mother was doing. She’d learned that much.
Mother was disciplining one of the ladies-in-waiting.
That meant she should simply stand by and not do anything. She knew that.
Then Mother was looking at her, watching her very, very closely, and there was nothing she could do but rise to the challenge. Laugh when her mother laughed, grieve when she grieved.
Then Mother wouldn’t be angry. A smile would come over her face, and she would grow no uglier.
When she was about five years old, rouge was applied to her lips; by the time she was ten, face-whitening powder was put on her cheeks. Her eyebrows were plucked out and false ones drawn on, and then she felt like she was wearing a mask. It was as if there were invisible strings connected to her arms and legs, and Mother was pulling them. She was hemmed in on every side.
She could accept that. She was perfectly willing to be a puppet all her life.
But that was a mistake.
It didn’t matter if she wore a mask, if she made herself a puppet: Mother kept getting uglier and uglier. She discovered it was impossible to stop it.
Ah: it had all been for nothing.
But by the time she realized that, it was too late. Too late to do anything at all.
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