Page 48 of Hair, She Bears
Zenna complied with Mother’s barked instruction. Her gaze followed him as he prowled around the sofa, and her breath caught in her throat. His eyes dropped to the crumpled shirt, then returned to her face. He continued his slow pace toward her.
When Mother reached Zenna, he uncapped the leather canteen. Lifting it over Zenna’s head, he tipped the canteen and dumped water on her. She cried out, her muscles tightening as the frigid water streamed down her body. When Mother tilted the canteen a second time, Zenna shrieked, twisting away, but Mother grabbed her arm, his fingers digging into her flesh.
Her shirt clung to her skin, the translucent material revealing the curves of her body. Mother’s eyes glowed. His finger hooked under the strap of her tank top, dragging it down her arm.
“You should change clothes.”
She turned, angling her body toward the sofa, but Mother blocked her. He shook his head slowly.
“I didn’t say you could move.”
“You told me to change.” She frowned.
“That I did.” His other hand snapped out, grabbed the second shirt strap, and jerked it down her arm, revealing the swell of her breasts. Dragging his knuckle up her arm, he leaned forward, his mouth hovering an inch from her skin.
Her stomach knotted. She wouldn’t be able to fight off Mother should his thoughts take on a more sinister direction. Clearing her throat, she spoke with feigned conviction.
“I’d like some privacy.”
“I’m going to enjoy breaking you.” Mother said, the tip of his tongue slid into her ear. She shivered, fighting the urge to pull away from him. He flung her toward the sofa. “Change.”
She scurried across the room, snatched up the shirt—with Malik hidden inside—and dashed up the staircase before Mother changed his mind. Jerking the partially open curtain across the loft, she set the shirt on the bed, carefully unwrapping the raven.
“Malik?” she whispered. The raven’s foot twitched.
“What is the first ingredient you need?” Mother called from beneath the landing.
“A mortar,” Zenna replied.
She untied the apron, dropped it onto the bed, and peeled off her wet shirt, laying it on the floor to dry. Pulling the necklace from the apron’s pocket, she shoved it under her pillow, leaving it beside the small sack of grapes and cheese.
“I brought that.” Mother’s voice sounded as though he were standing beside her.
“You did?” She spun around, her hands flying to cover her body. She was alone in the loft. Peering out from behind the curtain, her gaze sought Mother. He stood at her worktable, in front of him a stone mortar, similar in size to the one she smashed.
That’s why Mother had been in the tower!
“What next?” He spun around, his eyes bore into her.
“Ginger root.” She dove behind the curtain again.
“How much?” he asked, his voice moving along the back wall of the tower.
“One piece, roughly the size of your palm, chopped finely.”
Why did Mother want to know the formula? It was his invention, surely, he remembered the recipe. Was it a test? She dragged the new shirt on, marveling at the simplicity of pulling the shirt over her head.
“Then what?”
“A spoonful of thistle.” She knelt beside the bed, her head level with Malik, and drew one finger down his back. He opened his beak and clicked once. “Please hold on a bit longer.”
Malik clicked his beak again, forcing two words through his broken body. “I will.”
“Promise me, no matter what you hear, you won’t intervene,” she said.
“No.”
“Don’t make me put you in a cage.” She leaned forward and touched her mouth to his feathered head.
