For the record, I agree with Katara (or more accurately, Katara agrees with me). Azula does have gorgeous cheekbones. At least, she does in certain episodes – believe me, I have nothing but love and respect for ATLA and everyone who makes it, but the look of some characters varies wildly from episode to episode. I tend to prefer Azula's look in The Day of Black Sun, aside from her mysteriously and temporarily black hair. And of course in the finale, but that kind of goes without saying.

21. Azula and the Mirror

In the morning, I woke damp with cold sweat. The ghost girl was gone, but her song was an ever-present echo; I could hear it all the time. When I peeled back the sheets, wound around me like a cocoon. When I shed my nightgown and pulled on my clothes. When I combed my hair, when I brushed my teeth, when I scrubbed my face over the basin on the bureau—all morning it was as if she were beside me, whispering into my ear. Where have you gone, clever girl? came her voice like glass chimes, tinkling in the breeze. Where have you gone?

I was always glad when Katara came. I'd stopped trying to pretend otherwise. But that day I was especially glad, because the girl was scared of her; when she opened the door, the voice vanished. "Hey," she said cheerfully, slinging a canvas bag loose from one shoulder. If she seemed a little nervous – if there was a touch of dread in her tone, in the way she looked at me – I didn't notice then. "How are you?"

"Okay." In no mood to discuss my night, I watched as she set the bag down on the table, craning to catch a glimpse of what it held. "What's in there?"

"Well, you'll probably think it's stupid," she said, "but I had an idea." She grinned at me. In both hands, she took the bag and proceeded to empty it all at once, spilling a raft of tubes and jars onto the table—tiny glass ones, in all colors, filled with sparkly dusts and paints. And scads of little combs, and brushes and powder puffs, and jewelled hairpins that glittered in the light. And a heavy enamel hand-mirror, falling with a clunk from the bag. And if at any point she tensed, or hesitated – if she did something, anything that might have been a clue – I was blind to it. "I thought we could do makeovers!"

I snorted. "You were right. That is stupid." Frowning, I watched a jar of blue powder roll towards the table's edge, and only just caught it before it fell. "No offense," I said wryly, "but why, exactly, would you think I'd want to play beauty parlor with you?"

"Because it's fun." I raised an eyebrow. "Oh, come on. Don't tell me you've never wanted to do this—be a little girl, for just one day?"

Weak little girl. Stupid little girl. After last night, a little girl was the last thing I wanted to be. "I never have."

I set the jar back on the table, and gave it a flick. It rolled back over to her side, a wheel of flashing, spinning blue. "All right, how about this?" she amended. "You do me first. Whatever you want—make me a queen, or make me a clown. Paint whiskers on my cheeks, I don't care. And when you're done, if you still can't stand the idea – if you'd honestly rather die than let me near you with a lipstick – we'll stop there. No obligation."

Well. That didn't sound so awful. Still—to keep up appearances—I heaved a sigh. "Okay, fine," I said at last, rolling my eyes. "If it's that important to you."

"You're a saint."

But it wasn't bad, honestly. Like she'd said, it was actually fun, even though I never did get around to painting whiskers on her cheeks. Instead, I got absorbed in lining up the jars, in neat rows side by side; first, I grouped them by type, shadow with shadow, lipstick with lipstick, rouge with rouge. Then by color, according to the rainbow. When that was done I stacked the combs on top of each other, and ordered the pins and barrettes, and sorted the pencils into lips and eyes. I resisted the urge to count them all.

From there, I began. And while I didn't make her a clown, I didn't exactly use restraint; there's a time and place for subtlety, I know, but that wasn't it. I was an artist, she was a blank canvas, and besides, it wasn't like she was going anywhere. So I rouged her cheeks peony-pink, and painted her lips vermilion. I dusted her eyelids in green. Then a layer of blue, and then more green, and then some shimmery powder—I was going for ocean, at first, but three empty tins later I'd hit the wall at peacock. That was all right, though. I kind of liked it that way. So I pushed blithely ahead, lining her eyes in black, then dipping a brush in paint to darken her lashes. And – after a moment of thought – dotting her cheek with a beauty mark.

As always, most of her hair hung loose, save for the bun at the nape of her neck. I undid that, and the loops that framed her face. Thick as it was, I didn't try to comb it, but pinned it up in a twist on top of her head—kind of a knot, held with a handful of pins, and also kind of a swirl. Mostly a spray of dark, shiny waves, escaping the pins like a fountain. I stuck a few more pins into the center, fancy silver ones studded in gems, and added a butterfly barrette. She really had way too much hair for this, but I thought messy looked good on her. At any rate, it made a statement.

When I decided I was done – that is, when I realized there was nothing else I could do – I took a step back, and handed Katara the mirror. Her eyes went wide. "Wow," she remarked, sort of dry, sort of numb. After a long moment spent staring at her reflection, assessing the damage I'd done. "And you said you didn't want to play beauty parlor."

"What do you mean? I still don't."

"Oh, I beg to differ." She wrinkled her nose and shut one eye, inspecting the turquoise half-moon painted there. "You're…quite the artist, aren't you?"

"If you say so." Fishing a handkerchief from the bag, she began to dab at the scarlet lipstick, wiping the last coat from her mouth. "Hey!" I said indignantly. "You can't just take it off!"

She cocked her head at me, as if daring me to stop her. Decisively, she pulled a pin from her hair. "Don't worry," she said, plucking more pins, shaking her hair loose down her back. "When I'm finished, you can take it all off, too."

"Excuse me?"

She fixed knowing eyes on mine. "You're not really going to tell me no, are you? After…" Her voice trailed off and she gestured with a pin, one with dangling beads that caught the light. As though it were a wand, or a conductor's baton, she twirled its tip in a circle around her face. "This?"

Again, I sighed. She'd said there'd be no obligation, but—she was right. It wasn't fair. I'd had my fun with her; the least I could do was take what I gave out. "Whatever." Just because I'd feel bad not doing it didn't mean I had to like it. I plunked myself down on a chair, being sure not to spare the scowl. "Just make it quick."

With a smile – and a few more amendments to her makeup, before she set the mirror down – she turned to her collection. Her first choice didn't take long. To my somewhat vague surprise, she bypassed the powders, and selected a tube of pink lipstick. "What, no rouge?"

"I don't think you need it. You have the most gorgeous cheekbones, you know." Actually, I hadn't. "Open your mouth."

I did and she applied the lipstick, very carefully. It slid on smooth, like silk, and I was surprised again to find that it felt nice; I didn't think about it much, but my lips were always dry. While I considered that, Katara picked up a black pencil – the one with the finest point. "Okay, now look up," she directed me. "Try not to blink." She leaned in and lined first one eye, then the other, her touch so light I could barely feel it. "Nice." When she pulled back, her gaze lingered on me a moment, a little longer than before. She blinked, and caught her breath. I don't know why it didn't bother me then.

At the time, what bothered me more was how quick she was, flitting from tube to pen to comb. I'd spent ages dolling her up. But she worked with a purpose – why didn't it bother me then? – and soon she was behind me, combing my hair. Combing it back, over my head, to pull it up in a knot; she let a few locks fall forward, along my allegedly gorgeous cheekbones, but the rest was rolled up tight. With a red ribbon, she tied it in place. Then she chose a pin for me, one I hadn't noticed before—I thought maybe she'd kept it in the bag. This pin was gold, flashing like a blade, one end long and sharp and the other sliced into spikes. The longer I looked at it, the more it resembled a flame. And the longer I looked the more it seemed familiar, like I'd seen it somewhere before, and the longer I think about it the more I hate myself for being so dense.

But it didn't bother me then. For whatever reason, it didn't bother me then, when she slid the pin in under the ribbon; its weight was familiar, too, but I brushed that off. She swallowed, almost too soft to hear. Then she picked up that enameled mirror, lying face-down on the table, and gave it to me. I don't know why I took it.

And I can't say exactly how I felt, when it happened. When I finally understood. I can't really remember, and I don't want to – who wants to look back on the world caving in? All I know for sure is what I did, and what I said. I wish I could, but I'll never forget what I said. The first words out of my mouth, when I looked into the mirror, and met those yellow eyes I knew so well—the only thing that, after what seemed a year of silence, I could manage to say.

"You said she was someone I knew."

I remember my voice broke. Hers didn't. "She is."

You'd think I'd drop the mirror then. You'd think I'd let it go and it would shatter, never mind the carpet floor—I guess it would've been more dramatic, that way, but I held on. Clutched the handle like an anchor, my last tether to the earth. I closed my eyes, too sick to look at the glass – to stand the sight of the girl, the princess, myself – but I didn't let the mirror go. "Get out."

The words cut my lips. I might as well have flung a knife at her, sharp as they were. "Azula, please—"

"I said get out!"

It happened without my willing it. When I screamed that last, a plume of flame burst from my mouth, brilliant blue; it lit up the room and made the sound all the more savage, less a scream than a roar, less a roar than a roll of thunder. Suddenly, I was shaking with rage. Suddenly I felt the fire inside me, hungry for escape, and I would've torched the world just to stop feeling—would have burned everything, everything, just so there'd be nothing left to betray me. If it hadn't been for the mirror – still in my white-knuckled grip – I might have begun with her.

But I didn't. Whatever else I did, on that day and the days following, I didn't do that. And I didn't fall apart until she left.