Page 29 of Hair, She Bears
His eyes glowed black as he sliced the knife across her hand again and again. Blood flowed down her arms in rivulets. She spent another six days confined to the sofa, her incapacitation the direct result of Mother’s perverse curiosity.
Bear did not die, but Mother’s gratitude was short-lived, and he resorted to weekly punishments as motivation, pushing her body to the brink with torture before leaving her shattered on the floor. She spent four months in agony, unable to recognize her face in the mirror, which hung over the fireplace. Then, Malik arrived, and Mother turned his demonic attention to grooming his son.
What horrific nightmare had Malik suffered at the hands of his father? The image of a young Malik kneeling before his father’s whip flashed into her mind. She glanced toward the window, overcome with sorrow. Mother had destroyed so many lives. A light breeze pushed the shutters inward, allowing moonlight to stream through the crack and blinding her momentarily. Was the same moon shining down on Malik?
Three days seemed an eternity to wait, and she could only think of one way to distract her fevered mind from endless worry—make more powder. She rose from the sofa, collected the loaf and canteen, and shoved them into the burlap sack. She hung the sack from the hook beside the shelves, returned to the sofa, and grabbed her apron. Tying the apron around her waist, her eyes skimmed across the sofa, searching for the knife. She retrieved it and the sheath from beneath Malik’s old shirt.
Limping to the wall behind her worktable, she fastened the sheath to her leg, then pulled several jars of ingredients from the back wall, including ginger root and ground thistle. She set the jars beside the mortar, her gaze drifting up to the loft. Shaking her head, she forced her attention back to the jars. Using the metal spoon, she scooped out the ingredients, measuring them with precision. After returning the jars, she sank onto the stool and hooked her feet around the base of the table. She picked up the pestle and began the laborious process of grinding the herbs into a fine dust.
A prickly feeling crawled through the back of her neck. She set down the pestle, stretched her aching muscles, and glanced up at the loft. Malik had said three days… but what if he completed the task early and was trying to contact her? Was there any harm in checking the mirror? A small bubble of hope hovered in her chest.
She dashed up the staircase and jumped onto the bed. Rooting under the pillow, she extracted the mirror. It glowed brightly. Malik! She was going to be free! Prying the compact open, she held up the mirror, elation gushing through her veins.
Mother stared back, his mouth twisted into a dark grin. “Zenna? This is a delightful surprise. I knew Malik was plotting something, but I had no idea he was so taken with you.”
“Where is he?” Zenna asked. She clutched the mirror, its edges leaving deep ridges in her hand.
“He’s receiving punishment for treason.”
“He’s done nothing wrong.”
Mother arched an eyebrow. “He’s been meddling with my production.”
“I’ve already started the next batch. There’s been no interference.”
“How quickly you defend him.” Mother smirked as Malik’s strangled cry erupted behind him. “What has led to your sudden loyalty? Has Malik been feeding you false promises?”
Zenna swallowed, struggling to keep her face neutral. “He has not.”
“Yet here you are, at the other end of the mirror.” Mother tilted his head. “How did you come by this magical artifact?”
“I found it on the floor of the tower. It was glowing, so I picked it up and opened it.” She offered him an innocent smile. “It could have fallen from Malik’s pocket when you threw him against the wall.”
“It could have… however, Malik already admitted he gave it to you.” An anguished howl followed Mother’s statement.
The mirror went dark.
7
“Malik!” Zenna screamed, shaking the mirror. She snapped it shut, smashed it against her palm, and wrenched the mirror open again. “Please answer.”
Fog swirled in the looking glass. She sank onto the floor, a sob caught in her throat. Malik had risked his life to rescue her, now he was dead or would be by sunrise, and it was all her fault. She should have refused Malik, forced him to leave her tower.
“Siren!” The snarled word swirled up the staircase, laced with hatred. “You’ve twisted my son into a traitor.”
A sharp pain exploded in her head. Her head jerked sideways, and the mirror slipped from her fingers and disappeared beneath the bed. Her body was dragged out of the loft. She rolled to her side, her fingers grabbing for the curtain. The curtain swung away, blown by a phantom breeze. Splinters dug into her back as she was yanked across the landing. She twisted, her tear-filled gaze landed on a dark figure.
At the foot of the staircase, Mother vibrated, a menacing scowl stretching his lips into a horrific glower. Around his arm, wrapped like a golden sleeve, was her hair. Reaching up with his free hand, he grabbed a section of tautly stretched hair.
Zenna cried out as he dragged her down the staircase, her body smashing on each step. Falling to the bottom of the staircase, she landed at Mother’s feet, a pool of pain and limbs. He flung her hair on top of her, covering her face with the heavy mass. Before she could move, his steel-tipped boot sank into her ribs with a sickening crack. She shrieked, writhing in agony. He kicked her again, striking the same side, and Zenna’s suffering echoed in the tower.
“By the time I’m finished, you’ll have lost your voice,” Mother mocked Malik’s earlier sentiment.
“Were you listening to us?” Horror drowned out her anguish.
He bent over, leaning on one knee, and wound his fingers through her hair, his fingers scratching over her scalp and tightening. He jerked her head from the floor and brushed his lips over her ear. Revulsion churned through her veins.
“Mother is always listening.” His voice pulsed with a whisper of something malevolent.
