Page 28 of Hair, She Bears
Mother strolled across the tower and stopped beside her. His gaze flicked to the locked shutters.
“If you give any more of that drug to my men, I will kill the recipient—and his family—in front of you. Sympathy has no place in my business. Do we understand each other?”
“Yes, Mother,” she replied and cast her eyes down.
He evaporated without another word.
When she heard his barked command below the window, she exhaled a shaky breath and wobbled to the sofa. After collapsing on a cushion, she dragged the sack onto her lap and pried open the strings.
A loaf of bread, a leather canteen of water, and… another of Malik’s old shirts. Holding the material up to her chest, she frowned. Was Mother kidding? Why would he condemn her outfit, then give her the exact same thing to wear? She held it to her face and inhaled, hoping the shirt held Malik’s intoxicating scent. It didn’t. Dejected, she balled it up and tossed it at the far side of the sofa, where it landed on top of her sheath and hid the knife’s silver handle.
Three days.
The bruising on her face would vanish before then, and Malik would never learn the extent of the injuries his father inflicted upon her this evening. She was certain his reaction would be irrational and violent. Wincing, she rubbed her jaw. It felt broken. Her gaze flicked over the empty vials lining the wall. Even if she had a full bottle, she wouldn’t touch it. Votras Alute did nothing to ease her pain.
This was not the first time Mother had fractured her bones. He nearly beat her to death at the age of ten. A batch, mixed with an incorrect amount of ginger root, paralyzed his face for five minutes. Once the drug wore off, he retaliated, pummeling her tiny body with his fists, then ripping a chunk of hair from her head. He left her on the floor of the tower, unconscious, surrounded by smashed vials—bits of glass embedded in her scalp—and covered in lavender powder.
She woke alone, her throat raw from crying. The tower, dark and cold, offered no comfort. Not one sound came from outside, no chirping birds, no revving motorcycles, and no rumbling whispers. The compound was deserted. She dragged her bloody body through the broken glass and collapsed beside the sofa where she lay motionless for hours, the only indication of time passing the movement of the shadows across the tower. The next morning, she gathered enough strength to pull herself onto the sofa.
Two days later, Mother reappeared. He bent over her body, his face emotionless.
“I am surprised to find you alive. You must be stronger than I expected, or perhaps I wasn’t harsh enough on you.”
She rolled away from him, facing the back of the sofa.
“I tried to recreate the drug yesterday.” Mother shoved her legs aside and sank down on a cushion, resting his large hand on her foot. “Except the hair I took from you had turned grey. The test vial I gave to Bear took years from his life. He’s an old man now.”
Mother paused, and the hand resting on Zenna’s foot flexed, one finger stroking along her instep. She longed to yank her leg away from him but feared the repercussions of that decision. Instead, she said nothing, refusing to flip over.
“Did you know that would happen?” His hand tightened, compressing the bones in her foot.
She cried out, twisting toward him. “No!”
Releasing her foot, he collected a small section of her hair from the floor, then reached into his boot, yanking out a small knife. Flicking his wrist, he extended the knife blade and sliced it across the piece of hair. He sat stoically and watched the golden color drain from the strand. Ten minutes. His menacing gaze rose from the grey tress.
“I’m sorry I made the batch wrong,” she blurted out, her small voice shook with terror. “I will never do it again.”
Mother nodded and discarded the grey hair on the floor.
“That batch does not count toward your parents’ debt. Faulty product will not be rewarded.”
“Will Bear be alright?” she asked, swallowing a groan as she moved onto her back.
“Probably not. You will lose several months of production while you are healing. He won’t survive that long.”
“I can start tomorrow.” She sat up, hooking her arm over the back of the sofa, and leveled her gaze.
“I admire your spirit, but I have men who can’t return for weeks after receiving a beating like the one you deserved.” He tilted his head, his gaze sliding over her face. “Yet, you seem remarkably improved… What did you do?”
“I don’t know… sleep.” She shrugged, her confusion evident.
“You didn’t take any of the drug?” Mother’s dark eyebrows shot up.
She shook her head. “It’s odd to swallow something made from my hair.”
Leaning forward, Mother grabbed her wrist and drew it toward him. His other hand, still clutching the knife, slashed across her palm. She shrieked and jerked her arm as blood appeared along the gash. Mother’s fingers tightened, cutting off the circulation to her hand. Slowly the wound closed itself, the puckered scar fading from bright pink to white and vanished completely.
“Incredible,” Mother said. “It must be a side effect of the plant your mother ingested during pregnancy.”
