Ready for portraits

An attendant took another section of Aleppei’s hair.

Aleppei’s whole body jumped.

“Ow.”

The attendant froze with the comb suspended.

“My lady?”

“It hurts.”

The woman spent one tired breath through her nose.

Aleppei closed her eyes. Her back remained as straight as a staff.

“Please. All of you, move.”

Nobody trusted so soft a dismissal. Hands hovered over combs and pins.

Aleppei opened her eyes.

“Please.”

The women stepped away.

Isene emerged from behind the screen before Nitya did.

“How will they finish if your head flees?”

Aleppei pointed toward a folded cloth on the table. The silver rings of a pair of shears showed beneath it.

“Ask them what they meant to do with those.”

Three attendants discovered reasons to look at the floor.

“Only the ends, Your Grace,” one murmured.

Nenye crossed the room and drew the cloth over the shears.

“What were you hoping for, Aleppei?”

Aleppei gathered the loose hair against her breast.

“Braids that stay on my head instead of taking it with them.”

Tiamat circled the chair, studying the abandoned sections.

“Whose hands usually work it?”

Aleppei’s face altered before she spoke. Pain had tightened it; the answer made it young.

“A woman in Father’s household. She has done it since I was little.”

Isene’s mouth thinned.

“That woman remains in Ajuraan.”

Aleppei looked toward the mirror. Her lashes shone, but her chin held its place.

Nenye slid her fingers beneath a loose section. Oil glossed the hair near the scalp; the ends rasped against her skin.

“How much oil remains?”

The nearest attendant turned two empty dishes toward her. Nenye checked a third, then a fourth. The last held enough to wet two fingertips.

Tiamat leaned one hip against the table.

“The Narosi women in Nehebkau used goose fat.”

Every face turned toward her.

Aleppei pressed both palms to her hair.

“The faith forbids it.”

Tiamat looked from one face to the next.

“Some of the temple girls did too. Whatever you want, girl, it’s your hair.”

A maid entered with a basin at the very moment an attendant backed away from Tiamat. Hip met elbow. Warm water leaped over the basin’s rim, ran across the holy rug, and drowned the nearest incense coal with a spit of gray smoke.

The room broke apart. Isene called for cloths. One servant snatched up the oil dishes; another rescued the pin tray. The maid dropped to her knees so fast that the basin rang against the floor.

“Goose grease stays in kitchens,” Isene said.

By the time the rug had been blotted, the goose had lost its chance.

Aleppei’s gaze settled on the jeweled band at Tiamat’s waist.

“What are you wearing?”

Tiamat hooked one long nail beneath the chain and lifted it from her gown.

“My father’s answer to men.”

Mylys’s laugh shook her belly.

“He put a chastity belt on you?”

Tiamat’s eyes traveled from the swell beneath Mylys’s hand to Nenye.

“A little late for you two to judge the workmanship.”

Mylys laughed harder. Nenye took the wide wooden comb from the table and put its teeth into Aleppei’s ends before Tiamat could gather another answer.

“Sit back,” Nenye said. “Let me see what your hair will allow.”

The servants made room. One gathered the unused combs until bone clicked against wood. Another folded the damp cloth into smaller and smaller squares.

Nenye took a section smaller than any they had tried. Her hands remembered the work before the rest of her did: one palm beneath the hair to keep each pull from reaching the scalp, comb beginning at the ends, thumb guarding the clean part. During her first Kaftalya winter, girls had lined the passage outside her room with ribbons over their wrists and beads in their pockets. They had come doubting. They had left turning their heads so the braids would swing.

Aleppei flinched.

“There?”

Aleppei touched the sore place with two fingers. Nenye shifted her grip half the width of a nail.

“That is kinder.”

Nenye began again.

The comb still worked, but it stopped fighting every inch. She made one part hold, then another. She twisted the waiting hair aside before it could crowd the line. For a while the room found a quieter rhythm: divide, oil, comb, cross the strands; divide, oil, comb.