Maya Motayne

In the back of the journal, instead of sketches of the faces she’d stolen, were drawings of Alfie. Some were of what she imagined him doing now, reading a book in the library or sitting at his desk in his rooms, his brow furrowed. Some were of moments they’d suffered together—her favorite was the sketch of him asleep at her bedside, his head lying in the cradle of his arms. She tucked it back into her pocket, his words echoing in her head.

I believe you. I believed you then and I believe you now, even if you don’t.

It was his voice that made her want to wear the face she’d been born with.

But things had changed. Neither the invigorating roar of a crowd nor the thrill of a well-executed thieving made her feel seen. Not anymore. What made her feel seen were the prince’s golden eyes, thoughtful and imploring. The gaze promised that beneath the grime of all that she’d done, she was still flesh and bone. Still human.

Broken, yes, but never beyond repair.

She’d lose herself there and then find herself once more when she found him.