1
Candles flickered in the darkness of early morning, their faint light dancing across a faded patchwork quilt draped over the shoulders of a slight figure, hunched over a small wooden table. Her bare feet wrapped around the stem of the table, holding it to the floor while her shoulders moved back and forth as if rowing a bow. With each stroke, a soft scratching sound emanated from the stone cylinder she grasped with both hands.
Blisters coated her fingers, the result of hours of constant grinding. To her left, a wall of shelves, lined with racks of empty glass vials, waited for the deep purple powder forming on the giant mortar.
She straightened and dragged the side of her arm across her forehead, brushing away loose strands of hair. Her gaze dropped to a coil of golden hair, piled beside the small worktable. The hair snaked through the chamber, wound around a shabby paisley sofa, curved around to pass in front of a stone fireplace adorned with an austere rectangular mirror, then looped the room a second time before it crawled up the stairs toward her bedroom—a trail of ennui. She sighed and leaned the pestle against the side of the stone bowl.
“Only one more ingredient.” Her voice cracked, echoing in the empty tower. She rarely had occasion to speak as only one person ever visited her tower, but she found the quiet of early morning unsettling. When awake, as she often was at this time, she would speak to the mirror as if conversing with an old friend.
Rising, she cried out as pain shot through her legs and collapsed onto the stool, her soft gasps echoing off the high-raftered ceiling. The quilt dropped from her shoulders as she stamped her feet on the stone floor, willing the blood to flow through her stiff muscles. After a minute, she stood gingerly, stretched out one leg, pointing her toes, then flexed her foot. She repeated the process with the other leg, waiting until the prickling sensation eased before she hobbled toward a large window, the only source of natural light. She cupped her hands around her eyes and pressed her face against the wooden shutters, peering out through the slats. Soon, the sun would crest the surrounding mountains, bathing the tower with its warm kiss.
Shivering, she turned away and rubbed her hands over her bare arms, ignoring the tickle of a fallen tank top strap, a battle she gave up at some point after midnight. Truthfully, she would have worked shirtless, baggy clothing more of a hindrance than she cared to deal with, but she needed the warmth, and even clothing three sizes too large was better than nothing.
Her gaze shifted to the paltry fire sputtering in the fireplace. There was nothing left to burn unless she started on the sofa. Her eyes flicked to the mirror.
“Only if you’re desperate,” she said, her soft voice hitching. She bent over, collecting a section of hair from the floor.
Her hair.
“You must never cut more than you need.” Mother’s gruff voice rang from her memories, the comment accompanied by the sting of a belt, punishment for a wasteful decision. “You have less than ten minutes before the piece loses its magical properties.”
She winced, unconsciously rubbing her lower back, which still bore the scars of Mother’s wrath. With that stringent rule in place, roughly thirty-five feet of blonde strands currently covered the living space, its growth aided by a tar-like concoction Mother forced her to swallow weekly.
Dropping the quilt to the floor, she methodically wound the hair around her arm like a rope as her gaze followed the river of gold up the staircase to a small loft, which held a four-posted bed hidden behind a ratty burgundy curtain. The bottom of her hair appeared on the top stair. It fluttered in the early morning breeze that snuck in through the slats of the giant shutters.
She hefted the coil of hair onto her shoulder and trudged over to the staircase, panting from the weight. Dropping the hair on the bottom step, she leaned forward, grasped the section trailing up the stairs, and yanked it toward her.
If twenty vials of powder required one inch of hair, then fifty vials meant two-and-a-half… she measured the strands with her palm. Her hand slid down over her hip, dipped under the hem of her shirt, and wrapped around the knife strapped to her thigh. With a quick flick, she ripped the knife from the leather sheath and slashed it across her hair. The stands came away easily.
She shoved the knife back into the sheath and returned to the small table by way of the fireplace—one final burst of warmth before she returned to her task. She bent to snag the quilt from the floor and cried out as a sharp pain flashed across the back of her head. Without turning, she reached behind her, grasped her hair—stretched taut like a golden tightrope—and jerked, freeing her hair from the sofa leg. Rolling her eyes, she sank back onto the stool, massaging her scalp.
“Maybe I should burn you,” she said to her hair, knowing the threat was futile. Mother’s wrath was far worse than freezing in an empty tower.
Setting the strands of hair on the side of the mortar, she rolled her head back and forth, loosening her shoulders, and extracted the knife again. She passed the knife over the ends, slicing off a small section, and sprinkled the pieces over the mortar. Repeating the action, she carved the hair into miniscule pieces, then returned the knife to her thigh, lifted the pestle, and resumed grinding.
No sound reverberated in the room except the soft scraping of stone on stone. After ten minutes, one hand felt along the side of the table and closed around a small silver spoon, which hung from a miniscule hook. Lifting the spoon, she scraped it along the sides of the mortar, mixing in the residue and grinding it with the pestle. When the lavender powder darkened to royal purple, she set the pestle and spoon down, a sigh of relief escaping her lips.
Reaching to her left, she grabbed the nearest vial from the shelf, uncorked the top, placed the plug in her lap, and held the bottle over the mortar. She dipped the spoon into the mixture and tapping the edge of the spoon with her pinkie, filled the vial three-quarters full. After retrieving the cork from her lap, she shoved the stopper into the bottle. Holding the vial in one of the sunbeams streaming through the shutters, she shook it. Light struck the glass bottle, casting purple sparkles across the floor.
“Never a full dose.” Mother’s voice growled, his fury swirled around her. “We don’t want to cure them, just give them a taste of possibility.”
Votras Alute, the magical powder peddled by Mother’s crew, promised to ease a person’s pain instantly. However, by restricting the dosage, Mother prevented the person from receiving permanent relief, and within a few days, they were begging for another delivery.
“In this world, the big take from the small,” Mother said. “It is nature.”
“It’s wrong,” her young voice had replied, earning Mother’s ire and five lashes from the belt. As additional punishment for her sympathy, Mother refused to bring food for one week.
She shuddered, her stomach rumbling at the recollection. Her gaze flicked to the loose stone at the base of the staircase. Hidden beneath it was a small cache of food and a silver necklace, the one she had been wearing when Mother kidnapped her.
Rising, she set the mostly full vial back on the shelf, covered the mortar with a cloth, and walked over to the staircase. She knelt, wincing as the stones bit into her knees, and pushed the coil of hair aside. Digging her fingernails under the edge of a stone, she pulled it free of the floor and placed it on the first step.
The silver necklace glowed in the dim cache. She reached down and extracted it from the hole. Holding it up to her throat, she shivered as the cold metal touched her skin.