Two full days.

It was the longest consecutive period of time she'd been away from home without her family or friends knowing where she was. She knew she needed to worry about her own safety, as returning home would likely see her dead before the night was out, but she couldn't help be worry about what others — the people she cared about — were thinking right now. Was she dead? Had she run off to elope in the countryside? There were so many outlets to spread rumors, and there were so many people who would believe them. What reputation would she return to? Would people understand?

She'd like to think they would, but no one had ever been interested in understanding her: why she took a job, why she meandered around without a chaperon, why she wasn't Araminta. In society's eyes, there was no leniency, nor was there any excuse for her actions. She was a failure by every definition.

But that was a toxic mindset, and she had enough clouding her sense at the moment.

She hadn't bathed since she'd arrived at the MacFusty residence, in part because Tilda and her family were concerned about getting her cuts, scrapes, and gashes healed before submerging her water that would inevitably become murky. She'd tried to avoid looking at herself as she entered the water, and tried to be content as she sat in the warmth.

Her efforts could only last so long.

When the dirt and residue was finally washed away from her body, Bella was assisted out of the tub. While the maids reached for the towels, Bella lost her battle against the urge to look into the full-body mirror in front of her.

And it was awful.

Her abdomen, while not bearing any scars, looked as if someone had mixed every color of paint they could find and splashed it on the skin. It was neither blue, purple, nor yellow, but rather a mixture. Had she really been hit that hard? What spell even did that? Her ability to avoid the dull pain had grown as the days had passed, but seeing what was causing it caused her to become very aware of it again.

But still, the discoloration would eventually heal — the scars, however, she was unsure of. The most noticeable one was the one that trailed down her jaw and down the side of her throat. It was very eerie, as she could remember Ben Crouch's lips trailing down that exact spot earlier in the month. It was as if that scar was a punishment for what she'd done, a reminder that she'd been punished, tortured, because her father believed her a whore.

Then there were the scars that dotted her legs and arms, and while she reasoned they could be covered by long sleeves and a dress skirt, the thought of having to see them regularly was a ghastly notion.

Her time to examine them closer — to try and deduce what had caused each scar — was cut short when the maids promptly covered her up, having noticed that she was staring with an expression of shock and concern. She quickly turned her attention to them, offering each of them a smile before allowing her to help her out of the room.