Page 39 of The Wicked Lies of Habren Faire
“Like what?”
Her smile sticks, but her eyes roam freely over my face. “I’ve always enjoyed the human and the ordinary.”
“I cannot give myself,” I tell her. “I am to be the champion, after all.”
“I ask only for a part of the whole.”
“What part?”
Peg hesitates, the grasp on her cane tightening. “Your one beauty. Your hair.”
My hand shoots for my mass of knotted curls. A golden blond with streaks of honey in the sun, falling to mid-back. Presently tangled and slightly dirty. Mam used to love brushing my hair eachnight. A girl at school said I didn’t deserve it, then she tried to rip it from my head.
I can’t help but question what Peg asked from Ceridwen.
I’m sure it wasn’t anything so hard to give.
My hand falls away. I’ll not be powerless, and I’ll endeavor not to be so vain as to cry over my loss.
I nod reluctantly.
Peg rises. Tools hang from her like she’s a housekeeper bearing hundreds of chatelaines. They clink as she walks, and, for a moment, I hope she won’t be able to find the scissors in the fray, but her gnarled fingers reach for them immediately and pluck them free.
She advances and Neirin looks at me. His dark brows knit together, but he remains silent. I wonder if he will find me half as tolerable without my one beauty.
Hair grows back. I shouldn’t care—Idon’tcare—but I cling to the ends of my curls for a moment like a child would grasp at a blanket.
Peg raises the scissors. She reeks of burning fabric, cooking flesh. Blood. I release my hair and step toward her. Somewhere behind me, Neirin sucks in a sharp breath.
I lay a hand flat at the edge of my jaw, catching my hair. “No more, no less.”
Peg tilts her head, a spider contemplating the fly. “Who are you to bargain with me?”
“I’m the champion.” I hold her gaze defiantly. “You need me. Youallneed me.”
I don’t see her hand move, but one second I am burdened, and the next, my head feels light as a feather. Lighter than I have ever known it. My hand shoots up to the clean line along the edge of my jaw.
Peg clutches my curls close to her body, smells them. I want to be able to tell you that I’m above worrying about vanity, and that myperformance of bravery mere seconds ago wasn’t an act at all, but we both know it isn’t the truth. All I feel is misery as I look at my lost gold on the floor and wonder how much plainer I must look without it. I barely register Peg as she rises and sweeps the spare strands from my shoulders. She tucks my hair into her cloak as if it will warm her. My face creases in disgust, and I wear my revulsion as an armor when I look down at Peg.
“My weapon,” I remind her.
Peg scowls. “I haven’t forgotten, mayfly. First, though, look at the state of you.”
“Youcut my hair!” I bite back.
“I don’t mean your hair.” Peg returns to her cauldron. “The filthy dress you run about in.”
I look down at my nightgown—the same nightgown I had gone to bed in three days ago. I’ve faced a king and whatever Peg is, bargained with them both, looking likethis.
Peg jerks her head toward the door. “There are trunks out there. Take what you want. I am loath to see one of my weapons in such a shabby hand. Besides, I’ve always liked the brave and desperate ones.”
I meet her eyes questioningly. “Which one am I?”
“Both” is all Peg has to say before she shoos me away. “Now, boy, I know you’re good with metal.”
Peg reaches into her own mouth and, with great, groaning effort, rips out an iron tooth. I flinch away, stomach churning. Black blood oozes from her lips as she holds the long shard—far too long, it seems, to have been in her gum—over the cauldron.
Neirin flourishes his long fingers, and the iron melts like ice to drip into the brewing pot.
