One night in the nursery long ago, my sister was bored and killed our brother in the crib. Our mother sighed and scowled, then called for a functionary. I watched as Redd took the tiny corpse away.

A few days later, my sister tried to kill me. I ducked beneath her lunge, and the knife slashed straight across my face, the blade clipping my top lip.

“Don’t fidget!” My sister screamed. “Stay still!”

“Rashala, no.” Our mother was nearby, sipping her drink. “You know I hate noise in the afternoon.”

Blood ran from my lip and into my mouth. I breathed hard yet didn’t dare make a sound.

“She is ugly now,” my sister said. “Send her away.”

My mother looked up from her drink and finally saw me. She sighed and beckoned me over. I approached, and her hand shot out to grab my face, twisting it painfully, my blood making her grip slippery. Her face was as beautiful as ever, perfect features and clear, fawn-coloured skin beneath soft dark hair.

“No, I think we shall keep her,” she said.

“No!” screeched Rashala.

“Be still, my sweet,” Mother crooned. “She may be of use to you. Let us just fix her right. Redd, come here.”

Redd appeared, its cold hand taking hold of my upper arm.

“I serve,” it said. “Shade is hurt.”

“Give her ten μ,” said Mother. “That is enough.”

Redd’s other hand reached around and dug deep into my cheeks. Warmth spread from its fingertips and the pain first sharpened, then faded as the cut closed.

“She’s still ugly,” said my sister, who was trying to twist into Mother’s lap. “She makes me sick.”

My mother had already returned to her drink, her back bending like a hook. “Never mind. We can veil her.”

My veil was fitted that evening. As I waited by my sister’s toy chest — my place after dinner — another functionary came for me. This one was called Oren, and it led me through the halls of our voidhold. I liked Oren because it held my hand. The other functionaries always clasped my wrist or upper arm and pulled, even though I would have followed meekly. Never disobey the functionaries. I learned that lesson as soon as I could walk.

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Oren brought me to the dressing chamber, a place I often went whenever my mother or sister declared I needed a new outfit. Rough or delicate, bright or bland, according to their whim. Sometimes with fabric so long that my hem snagged on the floor bolts, giving them a reason to scold me.

Oren held me while Redd measured my face. The functionaries talked to each other in their language fast, high clicks. I only understood a few of their words, things like “health” and “reason” and “child”. Then Redd made my veil, its thin metal fingers moving fast as it wove the dark red material right there in front of me. Before it had finished, I turned to Oren.

“Can I see myself, please?” I asked.

Oren checked my request against the protocol assigned to me.

“Yes,” it said, and brought me a mirror.

Ten μ of healant were enough, so my mother had said. Enough to close the cut and prevent infection, but not enough to remove the scar that now ran below my nose, from left cheek to right. My sister was right. I was ugly.

I returned the mirror to Oren. “Thank you,” I said.

Oren accepted my gratitude and noted it in my record. Then Redd covered my face with the veil, bio-sealing it to the soft skin in front of my ears. Only my eyes and forehead were now in view.

“I have updated your protocol,” said Oren.

Thus I became Shade of the Veil.