“It feels heavy,” I said. “And … dead.”
“The dye should … calm it down,” said Patrick. “Not subdue it entirely, but make it less obvious that your Hair is magical. And the color, of course, will help us stay concealed.”
I looked in the little mirror. Against the black Hair, my skin looked even paler than usual, and my eyes as clean and transparent as sea glass. The Hair didn’t look bad, exactly—just dead. Still long, still shining, but inert. I felt self-conscious.
“What do you think?” I asked, turning to Patrick and speaking with an attempt at playfulness. His eyes flickered to me briefly, then away.
“It looks fine. The red is all covered.”
It was foolish to feel rebuffed, but I did. What had I wanted him to say? That it suited me, when it clearly didn’t?
I got ready for bed—which consisted of simply taking off my shoes, as I had no nightdress. Patrick did not undress either, to my relief—merely kicked off his boots and unlaced his padded doublet to reveal the linen shirt beneath. It hung open a little at the neck, showing his collarbone and a smooth plane of skin below, dotted with sparse black hairs. But why was I noticing these details? Why was Ilooking? I turned away and thumped my pillow under the pretext of fluffing it, but really I was just venting my frustration.
I heard the creak of the armchair as Patrick settled in; his sigh. The fire still spat and crackled a little, giving the room enough of a glow to make out the shapes of the furniture and Baldbeak’s silhouette against the window, but aside from that, there was no sound.
Despite the large, downy bed and the smoldering fire, I could not get comfortable. I tried to make my breathing even, to feign sleep, hoping that Patrick would fall asleep also … But then I started thinking that it soundedunnaturallyeven and tried to make it faster, and then wondered if I hadforgotten how to breathe like a normal person at all. I sat up and thumped the pillow again and tried to settle down, but every shift in position made the mattress creak. I settled for lying uncomfortably still and barely breathing at all. I despaired of finding sleep—and then it was morning, and light was pouring in through the open window.
Chapter Seventeen
The Crenellation
‘A bold and architectural stitch that combines a chevron with a box stitch to create a stately design, excellent for borders or for pieces with symbolic weight.’
—An Exhaustive Compendium of Stitches
Both Holy and Base, 4th Edition
The dark hair on the pillow beside me startled me for a moment. My first flash of thought was:Had Patrick climbed into bed with me while I was asleep?But no, I could see him still slumbering by the dead fire. I remembered the night before—the dye—and let one strand, oil black and shining, run through my fingers. It felt as if it didn’t belong to me at all. I hadn’t realized how much I felt my Hair’s constant awareness until it lay there as if asleep, and I missed it.
Baldbeak woke, ruffling his feathers. He hopped over to the bed and onto the pillow, where he took a strand of the Hair in his beak and tugged at it. It responded weakly, rather than twisting away in irritation as it would usually. He cocked his head and examined it critically.
“I know it looks strange,” I said.
It’s just lying there like a worm, he said.
“Well, don’t eat it.”
Patrick was still asleep. Sleeping, he looked younger, almost boyish. He muttered something and turned over, flinging out an arm. I crept out of bed and put my shoes on as silently as I could. When he woke, I was fully ready and sitting on the edge of the bed.
“I thought you said we would leave at dawn,” I said.
“Well, what is time, really?” he said, and yawned.
“How philosophical.”
He had breakfast brought up to the room, and I ate while he readied himself. He shrugged on the many-colored coat that I had first seen all those days ago, by the Tower. He saw me watching.
“I will change to this when we get far enough from the inn,” he said. “Being recognized as a nobleman has its advantages, but not when you want to pass unremarked on the road.”
“I see the repair held,” I noted.
“More than held.” He looked at me for a moment, then seemed to come to some decision. He held it out to me. “Look.”
I looked. The slender, decorative line of stitches that I had sewn—oh so long ago, it felt now—had spread. Shining and strong as a spiderweb, they wound between the colored patches, covering almost half the coat.
“That’s not possible,” I said.
“You speak of impossible? I have seen you heal a wound to the bone. A magical coat repair hardly boggles the imagination by comparison.”
