Page 33 of Tangwystle
“Here.” I handed her one of my dresses. “I’ll need to buy more fabric. Can you sew?”
She shrugged, not looking thoroughly enthused about the task.
“I’ll get several yards of black fabric. No one will know it’s not for me. If we work hard we can get at least two dresses made by the end of next week.”
She plucked at the material. “Does it have to be black?”
I rolled my eyes. “The point is to blend in, Gretel. We don’t want the neighbors gossiping about some figure in a pink dress roaming around.”
“I wouldn’t want pink,” she reasoned, but stopped when she saw my arched eyebrow. Shoulders drooping, she let her night shift fall to the floor and pulled on the borrowed dress.
It fell several inches above her knees.
“I’ll go to the market today,” I said. I needed to stock up, thanks to the havoc of the past week, and it wasn’t like Gretel could go around in such a short dress.
Though she didn’t show any signs of caring. She swayed slightly, tilting her neck to get a look at herself, and then shyly looked at me. “You didn’t put on any panties.”
To this day, I don’t know how I stood there. Surely, part of me wanted to combust. To scuttle into the wallflower I knew myself to be. I’m sure my face appeared slack-jawed, and I’m fairly certain a dark voice in the back of my head growled at how she had the audacity to say such a thing to me.
But she was right. I took Baz’s order to not wear panties very seriously and, as such, hadn’t worn them since he’d pulled them off me that morning in his bedroom a little over a week ago.
I’d grown so used to it that when I changed that morning, I hurried to cover my chest, but hadn’t given a second thought to my lower half. And of course, leave it to Gretel to shamelessly watch me dress.
Gretel reached her arm out.
I stepped back, hitting the still-open door to the wardrobe. “What are you. . .”
“Let me braid your hair for you.”
She’d already tied her blonde curls up high on the top of her head. Stars know where she found the black ribbon to do so. I swear she hadn’t had it when she came into the room last night.
“No, it’s fine.” I pushed her hand away.
“But your hair is in your face.”
“It’s fine.”
“Doesn’t it bother you?”
“No,” I lied.
But I think even then Gretel could see through me.
She took a step forward, her movements stronger as she tugged me toward herself.
I tried to bat her hands away again. “I get headaches.”
She paused.
“I get headaches when I put my hair up,” I explained. “I’d rather it in my face than my head hurting.”
Gretel considered me carefully. And then gently pulled a few strands back. I could’ve snapped at her or pushed her back. But I think I was surprised to see that she hadn’t left me alone.
“What are you doing?” I found my voice after a few minutes.
She’d moved to work on the other side. Her fingers were quick but delicate, the hair rustling as she played with it. I enjoyed the sensation.
“Here,” she finally said, stepping back.
