Page 154 of Fires of the Forsaken
“What are you—urrgh,”Cheriour grunted when I sloshed water over the top of his head. Not all of it, but enough to get his hair damp.
“Addie…” he started as I knelt behind him and ran my fingers through the tangles. Right off the bat, I hit some knots that had him grimacing.
“Sorry!” I said. “But, y’know, this wouldn’t hurt as much if you brushed your hair once in a while.”
He sighed but said nothing else as I set to work.
I didn’t have the power to wave my hand and make his injuries go away, but I knew how to fix snarled strands. And the process of holding a small section of hair, working it with my fingers until the knots gave way was therapeutic. Calming. It was like I’d been transported back home. Back to my old job. Even as my knees ached from kneeling, and my hands cramped, I kept going, lost in my work.
“You enjoy this,” Cheriour said after a while.
“Duh.It was my job. Once.Don’t move!I’m almost done with this part.” I massaged his scalp, hoping it soothed the ache that accompanied hair detangling. “Y’know, I love your hair. With these curls, and the body, and thecolor—there are so many cool styles I could do! If I had the right equipment. Which, I don’t. So you’re off the hook.”
“You miss it. This job you had,” Cheriour whispered.
“Of course I do.” I shoved a chunk of detangled hair over his shoulder. “I miss the work. The conversation.Everything. You wanna know how many fun stories I’ve heard over the years? People sat in my chair andspewedgossip at me. I swore they thought I was their therapist,” I chuckled. “One time, I had a woman ask for an updo because she had a big date planned. Not an abnormal request. Until she told me her husband was away arranging his mother’s funeral. The woman used the death of hermother-in-lawto give herself a fancy night on the town with the guy she’d been fucking on the side.”
A laugh rumbled out of Cheriour. It was so soft, so subtle, I almost mistook it for a sound of pain. Except, when I peered at his face, his lips were curled into a smile.
My hands suddenly jittered as I combed his hair. “What about you?” I asked. “This is as close to a salon chair as you’re gonna get. Got any juicy secrets you’d like to share? I won’t tell anyone. Scout’s honor. What happens at the hair salon stays at the hair salon.”
“I don’t,” he said, but his shoulders jerked.
“Liar. Everyone’s got juicy secrets. I’d happily share more of mine with you, but our exchanges are always one-sided. My fault. I talk too much. So I’m giving you the floor this time. Fire away. Start with something simple if you’re not ready for the heavy stuff yet. Like…your drawings. I won’t ask about the Germany one…yet.But how did you get into art? Were you self-taught? Or did someone else show you how to draw?”
“Someone showed me.”
“And…?”
Cheriour blew out a breath and shifted, stretching one leg out in front of him. “His name was Gowan. He owned a shop in the city where he taught art and sold supplies.”
“You guys have an art studio?” I asked.
“We did. It’s gone now. This world hasn’t always been as you’ve seen it. People lived in peace, once. For a short time.”
There was audible pain in his voice.
I kneaded his scalp, wishing I could do something more to take the hurt away.
“Niall thrived once.” Cheriour leaned back, tilting his head toward me, enjoying his mini-massage. “Many of our buildings are now either empty or being used as housing. But they were once shops. Merchants here sold jewels, gowns, books, and art. We also had a dozen winemakers. More than any other city in Sakar.”
“Jewelry and wine?” I asked. “You’re making the old Niall sound like paradise.”
He made that deep, rumbly chuckle again. “It was. During this Renaissance period, Gowan transformed his home into a place of teaching. To advertise his services, he painted a mural on the facade of the building: a field of lavender flowers. This very field,” he inclined his head, indicating the dead-ish grass we were sitting on. “I…” There went his mouth again. Turning. Twisting. Searching for words.
I lowered my hands to the nape of his neck, rubbing at the muscle knot below his hairline (Jesus…he was,literally, all knotted up), and waited for him to continue.
“I admiredthe mural,” Cheriour said after a long beat.
That word,admired, packed a ton of weight. Because there was clearly more hewantedto say. Maybe he wanted to wax poetic about how the stunning piece had moved him to tears, but he couldn’t figure out how to make those words work. So he’d settled on one.Admired.
“Gowan noticed me and offered to teach me how to recreate the image. When I declined,” a grin tugged at Cheriour’s lips, “he brought his parchments and paints to the castle, where I couldn’t refuse him.”
“I like this guy.” I grinned.
“As did I,” Cheriour said.
The past tense word caught my attention.
