I closed my eyes.
“How do you feel?” she asked.
Each sacrificed strand translated to a piece of armor. It was invisible, yes, but I felt it shimmer all around me. I flexed my fingers, stretched my neck from side to side, marveling at the lightness.
“Safe,” I said, opening my eyes. I touched the sawed-off edges of my hair. “I feel safe.”
“We should offer it to the faeries,” Indigo said.
I wasn’t sure what the faeries would get from it—maybe they could spin memories from its strands. Maybe their mattresses were filled with girl hair.
That night, we pulled on Tati’s old fur coats and leather boots. I stroked the House’s sides as we walked down the stairs, and moonlight twisted on the floor like a laugh etched in silver. Outside, we threw the fistfuls of hair onto the lawn and I knew that no matter what, I would always be safe with Indigo.
Chapter Ten
The Bridegroom
Perhaps I could have sat in the parlor and waited for Indigo, but I didn’t want to spend another minute in that House. I rubbed my thumb along the brass handle of the front door. The metal had been worn shiny by a dozen hands. Normally, such a repetitive exercise drew me back into the present. But I couldn’t shake the image that had invaded my mind.
The false memory had triggered a second one, and when I blinked, I saw an old canvas backpack filled with saltine crackers, two tins of sardines, and a pair of socks. It was midnight, and I was helping my brother into the cedar armoire, telling him: “Go. I’ll follow you to Faerie.”
But none of it was real. I never had a brother. This was nothing more than the House tempting me to break my promise, convincing me to pry where I should not.
I looked back up the stairs. The door to Hippolyta’s room was closed, though there was another wing I had not explored. I’d glimpsed it only briefly on my way to the entrance, and even that brief glimpse had unnerved me.
At the far end of that hallway, a slender set of wrought-iron stairs spiraled upward into some unknown space. An oddfragrance had drifted toward me when I noticed it. Apples and honey. A slanted twin of the perfume Indigo daubed on her neck and wrists each morning. I pictured the House’s exterior. There was only one place those stairs could lead.
The turret.
Nobody uses that room. Not anymore.
So whose room was it?
Without thinking, I found myself climbing the stairs once more and turning down the other side of the hall. Here, time stood still. Even the golden dust motes remained suspended in the air. A small recessed niche caught my attention. Its three chestnut shelves were empty except for a tube of lipstick on the top shelf. I opened it. The shade was deep plum and bore the crescent imprint of a mouth.
Indigo’s mouth? I wondered.
Or Azure’s.
I returned it to the shelf and noticed a ribbon dangling. I tugged lightly, and something broke loose. It must have fallen between the shelf and the wall—
A mask.
Made of blue satin, studded with pockmarks that might have once held rhinestones. It was casual and blithe, and I hated it. In all the years Indigo and I had played, she never once reached for a mask. It would’ve been redundant. But here was proof that once upon a time she had so thoroughly been herself as to need a disguise.
“Careful with that.”
Mrs.Revand appeared on the main stairs, one of her gray hands clutching the banister. Indigo was not with her. I was both relieved and disappointed.
“My apologies,” I said, placing it back on the shelf.
Mrs. Revand flashed a tight smile. “She’s very particular about maintaining the grounds and this side of the House. Not even the cleaning crews or maintenance staff are allowed there,” she said, glancing at the staircase.
I nodded. “Well, Hippolyta seemed—”
“Oh dear, not MissHippolyta,” said Mrs.Revand. “Indigo is the one who sets the rules.” A breeze moved through the House, and it moaned as if from neglect. Mrs.Revand laughed. “The House is clearly as nostalgic as Indigo. Pardon me,MissIndigo. Old habit from knowing her when she was so young.”
I thought of that divot in the lipstick, the satin mask that might have touched her face. At the back of my head spun the image of my brother disappearing into the armoire, and I asked, ever so lightly, for I knew I was testing the boundaries of a promise—
