Page 41 of Hair, She Bears
Sucking in a quick breath, Zenna smashed the tail into pieces with the pestle. She ground the sections into smaller chunks, pulverizing them into powder, then exhaled, indicating Malik to do the same.
Malik inhaled and gagged. “That’s like rotten eggs mixed with burned motor oil.”
“The smell will dissipate with the next ingredient.” She spun on the stool and gave him a half-smile. “I just have to find where I dropped the knife.”
“It’s there.” Malik ambled around the sofa and retrieved the knife from underneath the shelves. He held it out with a grin. “Now, you’re armed again.”
She laughed and accepted the knife, rising from the stool. Following her hair through the tower, she wandered up the staircase and sank onto the bed. She grabbed a section of hair, measuring two-and-a-half inches from the end, and sliced the knife through the strands. As she slid the knife back into the sheath, she noticed the mirror flash.
“Malik?” she asked, forcing her tone to remain even.
“What?” His voice echoed from beneath the staircase.
“The mirror is glowing again.”
“Don’t open it!” He appeared in the loft, huffing, and snatched up the mirror. After climbing onto the bed, he scrambled to the corner of the mattress and shoved the mirror between the bed and the wall, and it hit the floor with a dull thud.
“What if it’s—”
“There’s no one for whom you need to answer that mirror.”
“Do you think it’s your father?” Zenna asked, her chest constricted.
“I don’t know, but I’m not willing to find out.” Malik crawled to her, swung his legs around, dangling them over the side of the bed, and leaned into her shoulder. “Swear to me, you will not reopen the mirror.”
“I promise.”
“Good. Now, are you ready to put pieces of yourself in the bowl?”
“It sounds disgusting when you say it that way.” Zella’s fingers closed around the strands of hair in her palm and glanced at the foot of the bed. Who was on the other side of the mirror?
“I cannot think of a less disturbing description.” He rose and held out his hand. “Sunrise is coming. If we’re going to pull off this plan, we need to finish those bottles before I become a bird again.”
Zella nodded and stood, taking his hand
“I hope your muscles are sturdy. Once I add my hair, the powder has to be ground until it turns deep purple.”
“How long does that take?” he asked, descending the staircase behind her.
“It depends on several factors.” She shrugged. “Each batch is different.”
“Don’t you follow the same recipe every time?”
“Of course, but I’m including a varying ingredient. The section of hair added to the formula influences the quality of the drug. The more traumatic the experience that occurred while my hair was growing, the longer it takes the powder to form.” She sank onto the stool and lifted the pestle.
“I assume most of your interactions with my father were traumatic.”
“They were.”
His gaze flicked to her hand, which hovered over the mortar.
“How long ago was the experience you’re holding?”
“About a year and a half ago.” Zenna sprinkled the hair on top of the green-grey powder.
“What happened during that time?” he asked, returning to the arm of the sofa.
“My birthday.” She grimaced and smashed the pestle against the bottom of the mortar. Her wrist automatically resumed the grinding motion, years of muscle memory built into her hands. She ground silently. Ten minutes passed. She glanced back at Malik, who remained immobile on the sofa.
