Author’s Note: If you’ve read my short story, “The Art of Scars,” then portions of this chapter will look very familiar. Believe it or not, The Art of Scars was written over a year ago to be part of this chapter. I liked it so much, I decided that it could stand on its own while I was writing the chapters leading up to this one. What can I say, I’m an incredibly slow writer who works far to many hours. Anyway, if anyone is still following this saga, then I hope you enjoy this incredibly late entry or if it sucks please let me know.

Best Regards,

Phaedra

Additional Authors Note: After reading a few reviews, I realize that I may have out twisted myself. For clarity, the begining of this chapter and the portions of it that are not designated with a setting are part of Inara's diary or "Pillow Book." Usually, the Pillow Book entries introduce each chapter, but this time it was just far too long. The scenes recounted there in all take place roughly seventeen years before the main action of this story. So for the record: Mal and Inara have a kid, Serenity. Inara is presumptively dead and/or has abandoned Mal and their child. And Mal hates the very thought of her. On that cheery note, please enjoy.

35. The Art of Scars

There can be beauty without art. I had always thought that the two were inextricably interwoven, like the arms of lovers at the point of climax.

He stood in my room gun ready, eyes darting around searching for the enemy who is not there. I laughed . . . I couldn’t help it, he looked so ridiculous wear that sad excuse for a sari, his face obscured by veils.

Mal struggled out of his headdress, clearly frustrated by my laughter. “I came here to rescue you, woman!”

The mirth died on my lips. This was Ishtar’s amends. This was my one chance to taste happiness.

I walked across the room and pressed him against the door he just burst through. I had to stand on my toes, balancing my hands on his shoulders to reach his mouth. I dragged his face to mine and pressed