Alina had loved Charles since the year the river froze so hard that their class could skate from the mill to the city gates. She was sixteen then, and he nineteen, laughing with his noble friends as they sped past the merchants’ daughters.

  She watched him glide across the ice with effortless grace. When he smiled, her breath caught so sharply it left her dizzy. Her heart ached for his attention, but he was always just out of reach from within her social circle.

  The years passed, and those small town kids grew into small town adults. She watched from shadows at balls, festivals, and royal weddings. He rose in wealth and stature. She remained the seamstress’s daughter, pretty in a natural way but plain and unnoticed.

  It is not hope that feeds obsession. It is a hunger without end, and her obsession was all consuming.

  In her small room above her mother’s shop, Alina drank snake-oil tinctures and applied exotic powders. She traded every spare coin she had for tinctures of youth, salves of allure, fragrances of attraction. Her purse may have been empty, but she was rich in miracle beauty products.

  "You’re beautiful enough," her mother sighed once, watching her daughter search in the mirror for wrinkles that weren’t there.

  "He doesn’t see me," Alina whispered. "But he will. I just need to catch his eye and then.. then.."

  When lotions and powders failed, she sought out psychics and street magic to fix what wasn't broken. This too was in vain.

  Then came the day Charles announced his betrothal to another, a beautiful noblewoman from several towns over.

  Alina stopped eating. Her gaze hollowed. Her hands trembled as she stitched fine gowns for the noble class, her mind racing. She was running out of time, she needed something now. And it had to work, it had to. She'd pay any price. Just then, she over heard some of the usual customers chatting, old women that loved superstition. But one line caught Alina's ears...

  "The Night Market appears again tonight, my psychic said. Now, I'd never go there, mind you. But if you need what no honest merchant sells… Well, my psychic highly recommends it."

  Alina’s heart pounded. The choice was already made.

  That evening, beneath a full moon, she followed their directions. Through crooked lanes and archways that previously didn't exist, she stepped through a shoddy gate into a place outside time and reality.

  The Night Market sprawled before her: half wondrous dream, half unsettling nightmare. Creatures and merchants of every sort hawked wares beneath shimmering veils, beings the likes she had only seen in dreams, nightmares. She wandered, aimlessly, too overwhelmed to make a choice when it felt like the Market itself called to her.

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  "Seeking beauty?" purred a voice like breath against her ear.

  She turned. A masked figure in glamorous layered silks beckoned her toward a tent of mirrors. Lantern light within danced rhythmically, as if it moved to the Night Market's heart beat.

  "Your heart is raw," the figure said. Its mask was silver, its eyes hidden. "You ache to be seen. Loved. And not by anyone, but someone."

  Alina swallowed. “Yes. More than anything.”

  "Then choose well, child. Your heart will guide you, listen to it."

  Before her hung a wall of masks - some laughing, some weeping, some regal, some innocent. One drew her gaze at once:

  porcelain-pale, cheeks faintly flushed, lips curved in the softest smile. The perfect bride’s face, the beauty she had been seeking all along.

  "Good choice, dear. None will resist you in this. For ever and ever, you will be the perfect, beautiful bride."

  "I will pay," Alina breathed heavily. "but all I have right now is-"

  The figure named no coin. It simply gestured to her reflection. "You have already paid, dear. The mask knows its master, it calls to you."

  Hands trembling, Alina donned the mask.

  It was cold at first, then warm swiftly, rushing, then it felt like it wasn't there at all.

  The transformation was instant.

  The next day, Charles noticed her, his eyes captivated but he dare not approach. The day after, he gave in and sought her out.

  "Who are you?" he asked, enthralled. "I have never seen such grace. Such beauty. You are stunning, truly."

  Her smile answered for her. Her voice, when it came, was lilting and perfect. Not quite her own, her words more refined than usual. But it was the right words, the right tone.

  He sought her feverishly. Within a week, the noble engagement was broken. Within a month, Alina and Charles were wed. She had done it. Finally, he was hers.

  Alina moved through it all in a golden haze, her mind clouded by bliss. She was lovely, adored, unassailable. But within, something trembled, something sensed danger.

  She could not cry. She could not deeply laugh, only politely. The smile never changed. Words rose from her throat that were not her own, only what others wanted to hear.

  And her love? He was not as she had dreamed. Beneath courtly charm lay a careless, vain man, grown bored now that his prize was won.

  "I tell you my father is deathly ill, and yet you smile?," he would sneer, not knowing she could not stop.

  He grew cold. Then cruel. His touch became rougher, prone to fits of violence when he was drinking. Sometimes even when he wasn't. His words cut like a knife.

  "Why do you stare like a doll? Is there even a thought in that pretty little head of yours?"

  Alina wept inside her mind. But her lips kept smiling, her tone pleasant and pleasing. Always.

  It took years, but finally she made her decision, alone in their new manor, she stood before the glass.

  "Enough," she whispered. "I want my face back. I want to feel again."

  Her fingers searched, pulled and scraped. Nothing moved. She could not find a seam, the mask was her face and her face... her true face was long gone.

  Despair clawed through her, but no tears came. Only the placid, painted smile as she poked and prodded at her perfect, lovely face.

  The years from then on crawled.

  He took mistresses. He mocked her openly.

  "My perfect bride," he jeered. "Such a sweet, stupid, simple smile. Go on now, I'll be home when I'm sober."

  She tended the empty house. She spoke when spoken to. She served, always graceful, always happy.

  Inside, Alina beat against the walls of herself, screaming unheard.

  One evening, he returned home from yet another bender. The manor was silent at first. Then he heard it:

  Soft laughter from the drawing room.

  He entered to find her before a mirror, blade in hand, carefully cutting at the edges of her perfect face. Bloodless, the skin pulling away like wax, as if the skin no longer lived. Her laughter was light and lovely, each note more uncannily chilling than the last.

  She turned, her "mask" smiling bright as ever. Her eyes met his.

  "I want you to see the real me," she said, voice gentle, as the blade traced another line across her once beautiful face.