Archive of Our Own ^beta

Rosemary was a very talented painter, everyone who met her said as much, and Rosemary herself was proud of the work she did. She painted landscapes and murals and everything in between, but the work in which she excelled most was portraits. She'd painted many a fine lord and lady, many a kindly wrinkled apple grandmother and cherub cheeked child. But she never painted herself.

"I already know how I look, and I'm not so vain as to think anyone else would be interested," Rosemary would say with a laugh. But it wasn't true. She knew very well people were interested in how she looked, she couldn't help but notice. There had always been so much talk.

There had been a rather horrible, rather pitiful old man who'd seen her at a gallery once and sneered: Oh good lord, the little wretch bred
And he'd started to say some very unkind things about her mother's choice of company. Rosemary was usually a very soft spoken person, but she'd turned to the man, and in a firm Voice that surprised even her said simply: Stop
And the old man had stopped, and he'd shuffled quickly away, white faced and trembling
But it wasn't rumors of her parentage that kept Rosemary's hand from painting herself

In truth, Rosemary didn't like her face

It was a very pretty face, lovely even, a face any painter would be willing to die to paint. And yet seeing it always made her feel as though some sort of cruel joke had been played on her

One day, when she was about eleven or twelve, Rosemary's mother took her on a picnic in the woods, just the two of them. Her mother told her that when she was young she'd had a friend, a very close friend, who hadn't liked their face either. The friend had gone away after school for several years, and when Mama had seen them again, they'd cut their hair and changed their clothes and their name, and been much happier. Mama had asked if maybe, this was something that might help Rosemary feel happier? Rosemary didn't think that was quite the reason for her feelings, but she felt better knowing she could talk to Mama about important things.

Rosemary didn't know why she felt as she did, it was something she'd simply learned to live with. Most of the time she didn't even let it affect her, content to lose herself in her work

But...

There was something she'd read once somewhere, she couldn't remember where now, but it had rung True to her

Though she rather wished it hadn't

"When one is reborn, they bear the face of the one they loved most in their last life"

Supposing that was true, what could it mean, that each time she saw herself in the mirror, she could not help but feel...fear?