“Is there anything else, mistress?”
Kassandra clears her throat, looking away. “I was wondering…I’m trying to learn how to do my own hair. The way you used to. I suppose gaining some agency over my life has sparked the need for more.”
“I can offer you tips.”
“I’d actually like to…” She huffs, hugging herself. “Could I brush your hair?”
“You want towhat?”
“Is it so shocking to you that I would like to learn?”
“Yes!”
“Just sit at the vanity, okay?” She gestures behind me. There is the faintest tug on my clothes, a gentle request but not a demand. Swallowing, I pull out the chair and perch on the soft cushion. When Kassandra comes over, comb in hand, I stiffen.
“I’m not going to stab you in the back with it,” she seethes.
“You used to throw it at my head!”
“Lucan’s Tree, you’re dramatic. Now relax.”
I sit ramrod straight. Her fingers pick up a plait of my hair, gently untangling its knots. Then, starting at the ends, she begins brushing.
She massages my scalp between the knots, working her fingers in circles. It’s rhythmic, gentle. It reminds me of being a child again when my mother would dress me. I try to keep my shoulders tense out of protest—I will not be Kassandra’s doll.
But I am so tired. My bones feel weary. It takes everything in me to stay upright. Soon I feel phantom hands drawing a blanket around my shoulders, and I lean back into the chair, into hertouch. She keeps working, hands moving to a predictable pattern. The stress of the day slides off my shoulders, even the one that still aches.
“I always wished my mother would brush my hair.” Kassandra sighs. “I was thinking of her tonight.”
I was thinking of mine, too.Keeping my eyes closed to afford her some privacy, I say instead: “Tell me of her.”
A slight pause. Then, “She was brilliant—much more than my father. If head of House were granted on merit, she would win over any male, any day.”
I look at our reflection. I’ve been tucked into the chair, wrapped in furs. Kassandra sways behind me, eyes focusing on my locks. “But she was not head—she was just a wife. So she turned her boredom on us. We were her playthings, my brother and I. And the servants.”
“What…what do you mean by that?”
Despite her blank expression, tears gather in her eyes. She runs the brush through my hair gently. “I was never good at it. The servants’ screams confused me. For many years, I refused to hurt them, despite her unpleasant reactions.”
In the reflective glass, my face pales. Perhaps it is my oath, our pact, or the loneliness of the twilight hours. Whatever the reason, Kassandra seems to be unburdening herself from something long held, just as I had done tonight. I stay silent, offering space.
“It came easier to Dominik, hurting them.” She shrugs. “Or maybe he just loved her more.”
The brush stops, a lock of my chestnut hair trembling between her fingers. I ache to reach up, clasp her hand in mine. But she has gone somewhere else, eyes glazed over, and I fear the consequences, like waking a sleepwalker. So instead, I sit in the nightmare with her.
“One night, they came for me—my brother and mother.” Tears pour down her otherwise stoic face, and it is like watching a garden statue weep during a rainstorm. “My mother instructed Dominik to break my arms. He was crying, I was pleading, butshe wouldn’t budge. She said we both needed to learn this lesson: that family does not mean protection. We must learn that we can only protect ourselves, and if we cannot, then we deserve the harm that comes our way.”
My fingers grip the blanket.
“So Dominik broke them,” she states. “But because he cried while he did it, Mother made him come back again the next month after they had healed. And the month after that, and every month until he no longer cried. It took years, but eventually he stopped weeping, and she stopped attending. But the lesson had been ingrained: He started visiting me on his own volition, and every month, for the past two centuries, he has returned to break me.
“Every faerie who witnesses it quits or is harmed themself. Some became crippled, some just disappeared. And how can I blame them? But you and Briar stepped in, even when I did not deserve it.” Kassandra blinks, as if returning to herself once more, and those bloodshot eyes find mine.
She holds my gaze for several moments. I remain in the chair, staring up at her as a storm of emotion roils in me. Sadness, fear, hatred, and empathy—it is a tempest that crashes into my swamp of grief, disrupts the stagnant waters and shifts the shorelines.
“You’re crying,” she says.
“Everyone deserves to be protected.”
