“Teeth. Hair. Bones.” I paused, remembering Milady and her unique punishment, then added, “Nails.”
“And you know that the spells required to use this magic to its fullest potency are complex, lengthy, requiring the reading of a spellbook.”
“But not for me.”
“Not for you,” he agreed. “The rarity of your gift, and your ability to memorize, makes you uniquely valuable.”
“Except it doesn’t, because I don’t understand what I’m saying,” I said, frustrated. “I’m not casting a spell. If someone can … latch on to me somehow, they are castingthroughme, like Ban Morin.”
“That only increases your value. You cannot use your power for yourself, your own intentions. You say what you are told, and your magic does exactly what you are told. You are the perfect puppet for someone like your ex-fiancé, my sweet.”
Anger flushed my cheeks. “I am no one’s puppet. Perhaps I was, before, but not now. I would cut out my own tongue first.”
“I sincerely hope that will not be necessary.”
There was a knock at the door. When Patrick opened it, two maids stood there with two pitchers of water and a large basin.
“Ah, thank you,” he said, taking them one by one and placing them on the table before shutting the door. He turned back to me. “There is one more thing we have to take care of.”
“What?”
“Your Hair,” he said.
I lifted a hand to it, feeling it coil about my fingers.
“It is too recognizable,” he explained.
“It won’t permit cutting,” I said. The Hair shrank back from my scalp, as if anticipating the scissors.
“Not cutting,” he said. He went to his bag and opened it, removing a packet of dark powder.
“Dye? I don’t think …”
“Bespelled dye. It will take, I think.”
The Hair strained at my scalp as if trying to escape. I smoothed it down, soothing it, avoiding his eye.
“Netta,” he said. “I would not do anything that would hurt you.”
“I could cover it,” I said, without much hope.
“There is no need for fear,” he said. He turned back to the table, where the glass pitchers of water stood, and emptied the contents of the packet into one. He swirled the pitcher around, and I watched the water inside it turn first brown, then purple.
“Purple?” I said out loud.
“I have been assured that it will dye your hair black,” he said, his mouth quirking slightly upward.
“I certainly hope so, or I will be even more conspicuous.”
His face was half shadowed as he turned away, making it hard to read his expression.
He set one of the low chairs with its back against the washbasin and draped a sheet over it.
“Here. Sit.”
I sat gingerly, leaning back until I felt the cold porcelain of the basin against the nape of my neck. I closed my eyes, feeling rather like the executioner’s blade was hovering above me.
“Do not look so frightened,” he said, and I could hear the slight smile in his voice. “But keep your eyes closed, lest the dye splash in.”
