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Looking through the heautoscope is unflattering, and Ainsley can see as much on Maartechen’s face. (Ergo, so can Maartechen.)

“Now, like a camera, it does add ten pounds,” she begins.

“I don’t care about that,” he says, not quite fuming. “But the little words floating around–they’re–is this a joke?”

“It shows you the self other people see,” she says. “Those are, um, translated from their impressions…”

“‘Preening?’ ‘Fickle?’ ‘Abrupt?’ Ridiculous! I don’t even know why I wanted this!”

He storms out of the shop. Ainsley sighs. She’d fix the dumb thing if she could stand to look through it.