The Absence of Nectar [antikvár]

One All these years later, there remains a scar on my face. Very thin, and light in color like a beekeeper's glove. My stepfather, Simon Jester, was standing at the stove one day, flipping an egg. I walked up behind him and said something. Startled, he whirled around. "It's only me, Simon," I said, already afraid of the look in his eyes. Instead of answering, he pressed the edge of the hot spatula against my face. My mother, who insisted that her children call her by her first name, Meg, found me later on the porch and rubbed a white cream into the long, thin blister. "It's the heat, Alice," she murmured, still rubbing.