Over the years—and especially since her first day at Beacon—Weiss had become increasingly aware of the gap between what she thought and what she felt. Other people… people she hardly dared think about these days, lest the pain of missing them grow too acute… didn't have that gap, or had less of one. Weiss did.

She knew, intellectually, that there were worse places to be than her current position. Prison. The bottom of the ocean. Wherever the grimm came from. Each of those had their bad points, and she could recite them in an abstract way.

At the same time, she felt like she'd rather be anywhere than here.

Another mirror. Another array of makeup. An expectant crowd waiting for her to sing, and an even more expectant father waiting to levy judgement.

It wasn't even the music that he cared about. Her father had no musical inclinations to speak of and a tin ear to boot. He only cared that other people cared, which gave him opportunities to get more wealth, influence, and power.

So long as she expanded those opportunities rather than threatened them, he didn't gave a rat's ass about the music.

She'd only ever sung at his whims, she realized. She'd never sung at Beacon. She'd been so happy to be away from that, to not have to sing, that she'd refused to sing on principle. Even during the short-lived "Puns and Roses" debacle, she'd played piano rather than sung, when piano was Whitley's specialty, not hers.

That'd been a mistake. She should have sung at Beacon while she had the chance. They would have liked that. Ruby would have liked that.

If only she'd known her time with them, with Ruby, would be over almost before it began. If only she'd known how few chances she'd have, how precious those missed opportunities would be…

Weiss' hands balled up so tightly she felt the prick of her nails digging in.

If the makeup artist noticed, she gave no sign, preoccupied as she was. The woman—Löwenzahn, or "Ms. Lowe" as she'd asked to be called—was bustling about. She was a round woman with graying hair, and a face that was probably kindly when it wasn't so tense it hurt to look at. Her fingers, though, were dexterous and true, and her motions both careful and precise.

"Now the lips," she was saying, and Weiss obeyed, falling into the routine easily. This was old ground—though this was a new partner. Weiss had never seen this woman before. Someone else had done her makeup back before she'd left.

The implications of that thought were troubling.

"Now your cheeks," Ms. Lowe continued. This didn't require Weiss to do anything but sit still, but she supposed it was easier for Ms. Lowe to talk her way through every step than a selection of them. "And we're done there, so now close your eyes."

That was a break in the routine—a clanging chord interrupting an aria. "What for?" snapped Weiss.

If Ms. Lowe had looked unbearably tense before, she looked paralyzed by fright now. "W-well, one eye, at least," she said. "Just the left is f-fine, if you want to keep the other open."

Said eyes narrowed but did not close. "What. For?"

Ms. Lowe couldn't help herself. Her eyes flicked at Weiss' scar.

Weiss felt her voice dropping a register. "I see. No, we won't be doing that."

Ms. Lowe began to protest, but Weiss cut her off with a raised finger before she could get going. "We are not going to obscure this or play it down," Weiss said. "If anything, I want it emphasized."

The words left Ms. Lowe stricken. "Emphasized? Ma'am, that's… that's against my instructions."

"My father's instructions." It was not a question; who else's could they be?

Ms. Lowe gave quick, shallow nods. "He said it was un… unbefitting. He wanted it…"

"I can guess," said Weiss, sparing the makeup artist having to spell it out. She sighed. "And I'm guessing he went a bit further than that? Something along the lines of, 'Do a good job and more work might be coming, mess it up and you'll never work in this town again'?"

A squeak escaped Ms. Lowe before, blushing furiously, she crushed her lips shut.

In turn, Weiss knew, that made her responsible. This woman's employment depended on Weiss' cooperation. How like her father to hold everyone around him ransom.

"We'll blame me."

The words were out of her mouth before they hit her brain—her feelings and thoughts were working on separate tracks again. When Ms. Lowe just kept on looking petrified, Weiss' mind caught up with her intent. "We'll emphasize my scar, and then we'll blame me," Weiss explained. "If anyone asks, we'll say you did the job properly, but I messed it up before my performance."

"Lie to Master Schnee?" said Ms. Lowe, as a sheen of sweat broke out at her brow.

Master… if she hadn't been dead-set on defiance before, that word fixed Weiss' course. "It's not a lie," she said smugly. "It's the truth. I am messing it up. I don't like doing things just because my father says, and I don't think you do, either."

"He's the customer," Ms. Lowe bleated. "The customer is always right!"

"Not always, and you know it." Weiss took the pressure off a bit; she sat back in her chair and tossed her head in a way that pushed the left side of her face closer to the artist. "Stage makeup is supposed to enhance contrast and help details stand out. Why would we smudge them up? Am I supposed to look like an indistinct blur?"

"I-if that's what's called for," said Ms. Lowe, but her face looked as troubled as it did scared.

"That's not what either of us want, though," Weiss said keenly. "We want this to be seen. It's special. It's unique to me. You don't often get a chance to work with this sort of feature, do you?"

"No," said Ms. Lowe, but it was almost automatic. Her eyes were scanning Weiss' face. Weiss could almost see the gears turning in Ms. Lowe's head.

"There's opportunity here," Weiss pressed. "You get to do something new and different. You get to present this face, this scar. Who else has had that chance?"

Ms. Lowe's cheeks dimpled; the woman was biting the insides of them in her nervousness. "It is… striking," she allowed.

It means I'm one bad mother. An upsurge of feeling hit Weiss, a dozen different emotions all together, loneliness and longing, affection and annoyance, sorrow and joy. She was surrounded by the smell of roses.

"I've been told," she said, voice quavering, "that it's my best feature."

Ms. Lowe gave another set of herky-jerky nods.

"So," said Weiss, leaning forward conspiratorially, "do you want to help me flaunt this, and stick it to 'master Schnee' in the process?"

The ghost of a smile flickered across Ms. Lowe's face.

Weiss looked back in the mirror, and saw it smiling back at her. Her eyes traced down the scar, the scar that showed her own agency, her own will.

"Good."

Weiss thought she could hear Ruby cheering her on.

Next time: Share the Wealth