At least she still was highborn. At least she still had her education, her grace and her poise.
But her beauty was gone, along with the rest of her possessions and life – or what she had believed to be her life. Her sister had in one fell swoop destroyed her life – her beauty was the least of it.
Her magic, or alchemy, or whatever foul arts she now practiced and had apparently practiced for years, held the court and the people firmly in thrall. They would not even acknowledge that there had ever been two sisters.
A slave. The maddening word was merely the final drop of poison in a chalice overflowing with it.
Her sister had sent her far across the sea to be sold in some distant port. Why had she not simply killed her with her poison?
Was her hatred truly that great?

So now she was a grotesque, her voice a hoarse croaking. She had stared in the mirror her sister had held up with cackling glee without comprehension. What was that... thing? It barely looked like a person. It was more like a child's attempt at molding a face out of clay.
When the truth hit her she had collapsed again with a muffled, choking cry.

No mirrors for her. And she would never show her – face to anyone ever again.
At least she still was highborn.