Page 170 of The Last One
“Of course, beloved.”
She instructs me to lean over a wooden tub, then pulls out a thick, bristled brush.
I kneel over the drum and sigh as she pours hot water over my hair.
Soon the room smells of peppermint soap. Ridget runs the bar through my thicket, her fingers rubbing hard enough to loosen the dirt but soft enough to avoid hurting my scalp. She hums a song that relaxes my muscles as dirty lather drips into the tub.
I close my eyes and enjoy this brief rest.
A young chambermaid brings another bucket of hot water, and Ridget pours that over my hair to rinse out the suds. She drapes a towel over my head that smells of lavender.
My eyes stay closed as she sprinkles peppermint oil into my locks. Ridget’s touch sends a wave of cold through my body that stings, then burns—but it’s a refreshing, soothing burn.
“Come, beloved,” Ridget coos as she plops onto a low stool, then taps the floor.
I sit cross-legged between her knees, my back to her.
She hums as she rummages through a satchel, gathering what she needs: a comb, a brush, and a jar of thick oil. “Your hair just needs a little love, Lady…and alot of oil.”
I laugh. “True.”
Ridget places her warm palms against my cold cheeks. She squeezes my shoulders, and then she opens the jar. She scoops a thicker peppermint oil into her palm, then works the grease through my hair. She sections my hair with an ivory comb, then forces the comb through the snarls. “Such thick and healthy hair. Beautiful hair.”
A teardrop slips down my cheek. Embarrassed, I swipe it away. “It’s falling out.”
“Of course it is,” she says, “to make room for new hair.”
I say nothing, but I’m experiencing something more than typical hair loss.
She hums that song again as she pulls the comb through my tangles, softly apologizing anytime I wince. “Tender-headed?”
A memory lights in my mind, and muted joy dances across my lips. “Yes. My mother used to comb my hair like this.”
“Of course she did. A mother is the first guardian of her daughter’s hair.”
Another teardrop plops onto the back of my hand. “I don’t remember much about her.”
Ridget starts the first of two braids. “She still lives deep inside you. She still loves you and wants the best for you.”
“How do you know that?”
Her hands work quickly as she starts the second braid. “Because you are lovable, Lady. Don’t let any being in this realm or any other realm tell you any different.” She taps my shoulder with a comb. “Go see yourself.”
I stand at the mirror over the basin. Two braids sit perfectly on the sides of my head. Rose-gold thread travels through the braids and catches the lantern light. “Strange,” I say. “My neck feels stronger. My shoulders, too.”
“That’s because I threaded your hair with spun luclite. And what’s more—”
As though she planned it, there’s a knock on the door.
In walks Separi, back now from her jaunt with Philia. She’s holding a breastplate that shines with overlapping rose-gold scales. “Your luclite armor, dearest.”
My mouth goes slack, and I press my hands against my cheeks.
“May I?” Separi asks.
Breathless, I watch as she places the complete set of armor upon the bed.
The material of the long-sleeved tunic—as well as the breeches—has been woven with luclite. Like the breastplate, the matching vambraces and gauntlets to cover my arms and hands are fabricated from this rare metal. “And your cloak of wonder completes your moveable fortress.” Separi bows her head and adds, “I know the armorer who kept these items after the Great War. We hosted his wedding for a meager price—free. This is repayment for that debt.”
