Page 49 of Magick and Lead
“Wow,” the shop girl said, still holding my long braids.
I gave her a nod. “Thank you for your help.”
“Sure thing,” she glanced at my sling. “Say, I was wondering, what happened to your arm?”
I glanced down at it, then back to her. “I broke it punching a shop keep who asked too many questions.”
The girl laughed. “Oh my. You Wilderton girls are really too much!”
“You have no idea,” Charlie muttered, putting a hand on my back. “Let’s go. We’ve still gotta get ready for tonight.”
Our next stop was at what Charlie called ahair salon. The stylist who greeted us, a stout red-headed woman with dramatic eye makeup, fretted over the chop-job I’d done on my hair (neither of us informed her I’d done it minutes before with a dagger) and led me to a swiveling chair set in front of a mirror. Other women sat in similar chairs all around us, chatting and laughing. Strange smells wafted all around, mingling with the sounds of snipping scissors and the whooshing of spray bottles. Every haircut I’d received in my life, I’d gotten from Rohree in my own private chambers. This seemed an entirely different experience. And yet, all in all, I found this a rather pleasant place, and I settled happily into my seat while the servant swooped a black cape around me.
“What happened to your wing, birdie?” she asked, and my heart fluttered to a stop.
Little bird.Braimar used to call me something like that. Braimar, my ex-boyfriend. Braimar, whose two-headed dragon had lost a head and caused him to go mad. Braimar, who’d cornered me with his friends and tried to hurt me, before Charlie had come to my rescue. That wasn’t something I wanted to dwell on now—Charlie helping me. Charlie caring for me. Now was a time to keep my heart—and my dagger—sharp. But with just a few words, this woman had thrown all that into disarray.
“What?” I said.
She nodded toward me. “Your arm.”
“She fell,” Charlie put in quickly. “Going down the subway steps.”
I shot him a look. I hated how smoothly he lied, but he was probably afraid I’d say I punched a shopkeeper again.
The stylist shook her head. “Those steps are so treacherous, especially in the rain. Now about this hair. It’s beautiful, but this cut…” she held up a few strands, frowning.
“She loves to go to the dance halls,” Charlie said quickly. “She wants a style that will help her fit in there.”
The woman grunted. “A woman this beautiful seems made to stand out, not fit in.”
“Right. And I can speak for myself,” I said, with a glance at Charlie. He gave a sullen shrug and crossed his arms.
“I want… uh…”
I felt Othura laugh in the back of my mind, a sure sign she was listening in. Accompanying her presence was the taste of rat—which, through the perspective of a dragon, was delicious—but still unsettling.
Get a streak of silver, to match my scales,she suggested.
Hush, you. You’re distracting me,I told her.
Charlie and the stylist were watching me expectantly.
I cleared my throat. “He’s right…” I said. “I need a hairstyle fit for a dance hall.”
The woman brandished her scissors and gave the air a few snips.
“Say no more, girl. When I’m done with you, your fella here is going to have to fight off every guy in town.”
I stepped out of the hair salon and took a deep breath, feeling the warm breeze sigh through my thin dress. Perhaps it was just losing twenty inches of hair, but I felt lighter. Freer.
I struck a pose for Charlie. “Well. Do I look like an Ironberg girl?”
His gaze traced my face, my body, sparing not a single inch of me, then his eyes settled on mine. “You’re like no woman I’ve ever seen—in Ironberg or anywhere else.”
I opened my mouth to say something. A joke. A jab. Anything to diffuse the moment. But instead, I felt the dragon intuition inside me flaring. Something drew my eyes to a bench behind Charlie. A man sat there reading a newspaper. He wore spectacles with black lenses and a black hat with a wide brim. I felt sure I’d seen him before.
“Don’t look now,” I whispered. “But there’s a man on the bench behind you. I’m pretty sure I saw him outside the dress shop, too.”
