This woman makes me feel like I'm standing on a merry-go-round, albeit a slow one. Her heels click against the polished marble as she walks around me, examining me. I'm not sure who she is, but she seems important. Her long gray pants are connected to a shear top; the chest part covered in a gold material. She screams sophisticated.

            Less than half an hour ago I was transported from the prison to the palace. The sky outside the window to my left is dark. Early morning I think.

            Her nose twitches. "You smell revolting." She brushes her long black curls over her shoulder.

            I suck my bottom lip inside my mouth. What does she expect? I've been in a prison and wearing the same clothes for weeks now, and the showers aren't the most thorough.

            She stops her circling and approaches me. "What is your name?"

            "Sana." I wish Barrow and I actually took the time to come up with something that isn't half of Raksana.

            Her hand reaches toward my hair, but before her fingers touch it, she lets her hand fall to her side and shakes it like she has a bug crawling on it. "Your hair looks like"-- she cringes-- "tar. Probably infested with lice. That can be taken care of. Your face is another matter." She places her hand on her cheek. "Cryro-surgery can take care of that."

I'll be recognizable.

            "No."

            "Excuse me?"

            "I mean, why does it matter what my face looks like? I'm just working in the kitchens."

            She sighs. "I know my kitchens, and my staff likes to look at things that are pleasurable." She doesn't care what the slaves in the kitchen look at. Her point is clear enough to me. But I can't get cryro. I need these scars. Without them Every will recognize me if he sees me, or if any royal family member does. This is a disaster. And Barrow did a horrible job coming up with my name so that doesn't help in the slightest. As long as I stay in the kitchens maybe I'll be all right.

            She turns and walks to the door in front of us. "Come."

            I follow her through the door which leads into a passage that I figure runs behind the rooms of the palace.

            "This is how servants travel to where they're needed," she says.

            She stops before a door and scans her hand. It slides open. Inside on both sides are rows of stalls. The air is steamy, and I hear water running.

            "The majority of the showers aren't being used right now. I suggest you shower before everyone start pouring in. I'll wait here. You'll find all you need inside."

            I nod and walk to the showers on the right.

            "And don't put those rags back on."

            I stop momentarily before resuming my walk. I don't hear the shower running inside the second stall. I try the door and find it unlocked. An actual shower head hangs on the wall; my hair can finally be washed thoroughly. I lock the door and peel off my clothes, my back not as strained as it used to be by this simple task. Turning the water on, I set it to hot and step underneath the spray, the water relaxing my back. I wash all the grime off my body, starting to feel clean. My hair proves difficult to work through but I conquer it. My hands end up covered with strings of hair.

            I shut off the shower and look for a towel. There's not one. Not good.

            From underneath me hot air blows upward. I jump but settle down when I realize it's to dry me off. I still need a towel. She said I can't wear my old clothes, and I don't want to cross her. Then again maybe I do. There's a chance I could be sent back, and after all the prison may very well be safer for me.

            The air shuts off, leaving me for the most part dry. However, my hair still drips beads of water.  I open the door enough to poke my head out. I feel ridiculous. The woman's eyes are immediately on me. The room is filling up with people waiting to shower.

            "Are you coming?" she asks.

            "I need a towel since I don't have a change of clothes."

            "If you come out we can get you your uniform."

            I shut the door and reach for my clothes.

            "Don't put those things back on."

            I grasp empty air. A lot more showers running than when I started mine. This is going to be mortifying.

            Before I can open the door, it's thrown open and the woman grabs my arm, pulling me out into the open. The first thing I notice is that our small commotion has gained almost everyone's, who's not in a shower, stares. I am stark naked. I'm abased but I don't do that blushing thing. I guess that's only reserved for Nate.

            A few of the guys whistle. I swallow, keeping my head level. Act like nothing is wrong.

            "What are those hideous things?" she asks with evident contempt.

"Excuse me?"

            "Those." Over my shoulder I see her point at my back.

I hunch my shoulders toward my chin. "Lash wounds."

            "We'll have to take care of those too." She starts walking along one of the rows of benches where the staff waits with their change of clothes. "This way."

            My wounds are being paraded in front of them. I can't imagine what it would be like if they knew who I am. At least cryro will help heal the wounds on my back.           

            At the other end of the room, she opens another sliding door that leads into a room smaller than the one we're exiting. Only one person is inside—another woman but its evident she's only a servant here. She sits behind a desk.

            The original woman stands against the wall. "Spray her hair for lice."

            The new girl hops up and walks to a shelf filled with bottles and cans directly behind her.

            "Sit," the woman orders.

            I sit in the closest chair and cross my legs.

            The new girl walks up behind me with a spray bottle. "Hold your breath." She starts working her hands through my hair, spraying as she goes. The aroma of it smells sweet like peppermint. I close my eyes at the gentle tug and pull.

"Finished." She drops my hair, letting it tickle my bare back.

            Without a word the woman, who seems to forget I need clothes, walks out of another door. I follow after her. The door leads us back into the passageway. I'm a naked girl walking around a palace. If Every sees me I'm going to die. To clarify, die of mortification.

            "Is there a chance I could get some clothes soon?"

            "You have to have your surgery first."

            My stomach twists. I'll be healed, completely recognizable. "What do I call you?"

            "Madame Harper."

            She opens a door. Inside is an exam table and medical equipment. Two doctors, a woman and a man, approach us as we step into the room.

            The female doctor beckons me forward with her hand. I step before her, and she grasps my chin lightly and examines my marks. "These seem older. There may still be scars after the surgery."

            "Anything will look better than what she looks like now," Madame Harper remarks looking down at her communication device.

            The man motions toward the table. "Please."

            Pressing my lips together, I walk past them and position myself on the cold table. I lay back, wincing as the steel comes in contact with the wounds on my back. I stare up at the ceiling—at the scanner.

            "We'll start with your back," the woman says. I don't see her from where I lie.

            I roll onto my stomach. I hear the scanner whir as it runs over my body. Blue light reflects off the table. The noise stops from the scanner, and I hear footsteps. Spikes, like needles are placed, over my back. They start to move, running over my wounds, cleansing and sealing as they work. I let out a shaky breath. It doesn't hurt, only tickles besides for the occasional pinch.

            The spikes stop moving, and they're removed from my skin.

            "Please roll over." The man presses gently on my shoulder.

            I prepare for my back to ache after weeks of it always hurting. But when I move, it doesn't. It's healed now for the most part.

            I stare up at the scanner again. Deny whatever they throw at me after they see my face. Be optimistic for once; I'm not usually in the public eye so maybe they won't even realize who I am.

Every will.

            I inhale. The scanner starts from my feet and moves up my body, casting blue over me. I shut my eyes right before it hits my face. The scanner stops, and they place the spikes on my face. I keep my eyes closed.

            It's a weird experience—feeling yourself being healed. It's evener weirder when you aren't sure you want it.

            Whatever happens, I'll face it with my chin up. I won't be crushed.

Insurrection hit 33 in Science Fiction. I cannot believe this. Thank you everyone who has gone and checked out this new version, and thank you anyone who has stuck with me during this long wait for this chapter.