wore a corseted dress with enough jewels on her person to match Luka Ivanova, but the exaggerated expression of alarm on her face wasn’t one I’d ever see on his—in part because he wasn’t likely to wear rouge.
“I believe you’ve taken a wrong turn,” the receptionist snipped, checking me out from head to toe. “We do not run a charitable operation.”
My mouth flapped open and shut while I fumbled for words; then indignation flared. “I would like my hair dyed. And I am not in need of charity.”
“In that case, we have no one available to assist you.” She stepped around me, yielding as much space as possible, and I had the feeling she would faint if I touched her. After reaching the door, she held it open. “Perhaps another day.”
I spotted a row of chairs against the wall, then belligerently planted myself in one and folded my arms across my chest.
“I’ll wait. All day if necessary.”
The receptionist patted her upswept hair. “I could summon a Constabulary.”
“True, but I’m breaking no law. And I think your other clients might prefer we handle this quietly. If you would simply provide the service I seek, I will gladly be on my way.”
She considered me while my stomach attempted to tie itself into knots—I hoped I was correct in thinking her threat a bluff. Sticking her nose in the air, she closed the door, giving me reason to relax.
“I shall check our schedule.”
Taking tiny steps in her high-heeled boots, she disappeared behind a curtain, and I dropped my pack at my feet. No matter how out of place I looked or felt, I was not leaving this salon with red hair.
A few moments later, the receptionist reemerged to take her place at the desk, closely followed by a petite dark-haired woman in a white apron.
“I am Aleksandra Donetsky, proprietor of this shop,” she said, daintily extending her hand. I clumsily shook it, half afraid I might break it, and she motioned to the hair peeking out of my hood. “I understand you would like to change the color of your, shall I say, auburn locks. Then come. But money is paid first, and no refunds are given.”
“Understood. But if the service is not as promised, recompense will be made.” I opened my cloak to reveal the long knife at my hip, and, though the receptionist gasped, Aleksandra merely nodded.
After we had dispensed with the business aspects of the transaction, Aleksandra led me behind the curtain. The room in which we now stood had been partitioned into several workstations, and she signaled that I should take a seat in a raised chair in one of them. I obliged, then pulled down my hood.
“Well, well,” she murmured, surveying the tangles and debris embedded in my hair, her hands gripping her hips. “You are aware it is not illegal to use a brush?”
I gritted my teeth, determined to see this through, no matter how humiliating the experience might be.
“Do not dismay—I will fix. Now, do you have a color in mind? Darker would be easiest.”
“But darker would not be a dramatic change. I don’t want to look like myself at all.”
“I see. Not that I blame you. This appearance can definitely be improved.” She tapped her index finger against her chin, considering. “Blond or golden it is, then. This is accomplished with a somewhat caustic mixture of potassium lye, alum, honey, and black sulfur, so results vary.”
I flinched at the term caustic, picturing all my hair falling out. But my mind was made up. Even though Faefolk tended to scorn anything but natural hair color, I would see this through and regain the ability to move freely around the city. Madam Donetsky appeared not to notice my reaction and continued to think out loud.
“Let’s see. With red, I believe we will end up with a yellow or orange-yellow tint.”
“Orange?” I blurted, becoming more and more fretful.
“Not orange, my dear. More the lovely pale color of cheese.”
I sighed. “Cheese it is.”
Although I didn’t appreciate her glibness, her comments did bring one issue to mind—at some point, I’d want my natural color back.
“Could you cut a small lock of hair off for me? I want to keep it for comparison.”
“I suspect you’ll have plenty to choose from. Some of these knots would do a sailor proud. I’ll have no choice but to cut them out.”
I nodded, and she went to work, placing the first snip in my hand.
Several hours later, my scalp feeling raw and my eyes burning, the hairdresser declared her work done and led me to a mirror draped with a scarf.
“Ready to see?”
I took a deep breath and nodded, and she swept away the scarf. The yellow-blond hair that framed my face was clean, shiny, and beautiful, though not quite in keeping with my complexion. My face looked sallower, but I didn’t mind. I barely knew myself, and I couldn’t have been happier.
“You approve?” she asked.
“I approve.” I smiled so broadly my face felt stretched. “And I’ll be sure to recommend your services to my acquaintances.”
“Not necessary, dear. In fact, please don’t.”
I laughed, then gathered my belongings and bid her good day. I would return to the neighborhood of the Fae-mily Home, the part of Tairmor with which I was most familiar, grabbing a bite to eat along the way. Only this time, I wouldn’t bother to pull up my hood.
DAY OF JUDGMENT
Although my appearance had significantly changed, I dared not risk renting a room for the night, for inns asked questions, required names, and checked travel documents. Nor could I stay the night at a shelter. The Constabularies were still cataloguing the homeless, and whether they recognized me or not, my forged travel papers had been obtained to represent me as human rather than to conceal my identity. Even the Fae-mily Home was out of the question, for it would be among the first places Luka’s men would look. After all, it was the Lieutenant Governor who had sent me to Fi when he’d learned of the loss of my wings during our original meeting in the Governor’s mansion.
I leaned against a storefront wall, idly watching a custodian light a gas lamp on the street corner while I weighed my options. In more affluent parts of the city, lampposts practically lined the streets. But here they were scattered, their solitary pools of amber light leaving much of the area in the clutches of the darkness—and making wandering the streets at night potentially hazardous.
I blew on my hands, for despite the advent of spring, the temperature dropped once the sun went down. Street folk were beginning to congregate around trash cans, bringing scraps of wood and waste for use in lighting the fires that would provide some modicum of warmth and comfort. Knowing I was in for a long night, I entered the alley in which I had earlier rested. Its proximity to the human shelter gave me a sense of security, however false it might prove to
