1.

The kick of the sleek black mare's hoof stung her cheekbones, but that is not why five-year-old Genya Safin cries.

With a damp cloth, she wipes away the dirt and blood from her face, but it is all in vain. The narrow gash along her cheek is glaringly obvious, a sharp red line across her alabaster skin. Even her scarlet waves of hair can't conceal it without hiding her amber eyes.

Genya gazes into the mirror with defiance, her reflection blurring and rippling through the mist of tears that she cannot stifle. Her lower lip wobbles despite herself. The other children will laugh at me. "Silly Genya, did you walk into a door?"

From the next room, she hears her mother calling. "Genya? Where in Caryeva have you gone?"

She'll tell me it's fine, and it's not... It's not! Genya runs her fingers over the cut, gingerly, tenderly, and closes her eyes. She imagines the offending imperfection is gone. She imagines her face is beautiful again. Her fingertips tingle; her skin tickles beneath her tentative touch.

"Genya!" The door flies open with a start, and there stands her mother, hair wild, face flushed in her panic. "I looked everywhere for you! Are you all right?"

Genya catches her breath. "Yes," she says, trembling in disbelief, staring in awe at the surface of the mirror. She doesn't tell her mother that one of Father's horses kicked her.

She doesn't tell her because the cut is gone.