She wore her heart on her sleeve. Literally.
Well, not literally, because then it couldn’t keep her alive. But it was on her arm.
Other than having to get her clothes tailored it wasn’t overly inconvenient. The tutors had designed her a beautiful cage to protect it, and she was the only one who carried a mark such as this. She knew it could always be worse. She felt especially sorry for the man whose nose was on his eyelid.
They were the people made alive through the canvases of artists, stepping fresh from the page, smelling of paint.
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