Page 52 of Hair, She Bears
“Is that a new haircut?” he asked, his voice faint.
“A gift from Mother.” She dragged a hand over her scalp, frustration in her fingertips. Her gaze dropped to the stones in front of her. Tiny hairs, barely discernable in the shadows, decorated the flooring. She gasped. How much time had passed?
Malik’s breathing labored. “You can still escape.”
“How?” she asked, distracted. Her eyes flew over the jars. Could she reach them?
“After I die—”
“That has not been determined yet,” Zenna interrupted and stood. Stretching as far as the chain would allow, Zenna’s fingertips brushed over the jar of ginger root. She needed one more inch.
“After I die,” Malik repeated, “use my beak to pick the lock and climb down the tower.”
She glanced at him. “Can I use it now?”
“You’re that impatient to leave me?”
“No.” She picked him up. “We’re leaving together.”
She jammed Malik’s sharp beak into the lock and twisted, drawing an inhuman screech from Malik. The lock clicked, and she pried open the cuff, pulled it from her ankle, and threw it at the wall. Gently placing Malik back on the apron, she stroked one finger over his breast.
“Stay with me a bit longer.”
Zenna climbed to her feet and dashed to the back wall, collected the three necessary ingredients, grabbed the pestle from her worktable, and zipped back to Malik. Dropping to the floor, she set the jars and pestle around her in a circle and unscrewed each lid.
“You don’t have any hair.” His breathing hitched.
“I have scraps,” she replied and swept the shaved hair into a small pile. “A batch this small won’t take a lot of time.”
Malik did not reply. His small chest rose and fell, the slow movement comforting Zenna. She took a small pinch of the first two ingredients and ground them against the stone floor. Within seconds they turned the correct color.
“How did you get off the bed?” she asked, her eyes jumping to Malik.
“I used my foot to push myself across the bed,” Malik’s labored voice replied. “When I reached the edge, I tumbled off the side and landed on your shirt.”
Zenna frowned. “I didn’t hear you fall.”
“You were preoccupied…”
She shivered and glanced at the shadows behind her, fearing Mother would burst out from beneath the staircase. Fumbling with the next jar, her sweaty hands slid across the lid. She covered the lid with the bottom of her shirt and twisted. Her arms shook, but the lid refused to budge. What had Mother done to the lid?
“Break it.” Malik wheezed.
“I have a better idea.”
She twisted around, her gaze searched the shadows. Where was the piece Mother spat at her? Crawling over to the wall, she slid her hands along the floor, feeling for the piece until her finger touched something squishy. She shuddered, picked up the lizard tail, and scooted out from under the staircase.
Setting the decaying piece in the center of the powder, she glanced over at Malik, waiting for his chest to rise. After a long moment, it did, and she exhaled, relief washing over her.
Attacking the tail with the pestle, Zenna ground it into dust and combined it with the grey-green mixture. The color changed instantly. She swept her hair into her palm, sprinkled it on top of the powder, and pulverized the mass. She squealed when it changed to deep purple and dropped the pestle.
“Malik.”
He did not reply. Her gaze jumped to him—his chest had stopped moving. She yanked him from the apron and shook him. There was no response. Cradling him in the crook of her arm, she pried his beak open, licked her fingertip, and stuck it into the shimmering purple pile. Her breath caught as she touched her finger to his beak, scraping the powder into his mouth.
“Come on, Malik.”
Dipping her finger into the pile again, she coated her fingertip with purple, and added a second dose to his mouth, rubbing it over his tongue and waited.
