Chapter Fifty-Eight Ella
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Ella
We arrive at our new abode in the early evening.
The place Lex sent us to is Gottlieben in Switzerland, right on the Rhine where it spills out of Lake Constance. It’s quiet, tucked away, the kind of village no one would think to check… perfect for laying low.
The drive here felt short, especially after switching cars again, this time into a plain white sedan that blended into everything and nothing.
Our hideout is a small, private holiday flat, a converted boathouse perched right on the water. It smells faintly of wood and lake air.
The scent settles into my lungs and makes me feel as if I stepped into someone else’s life for a moment. Someone calmer. Someone not constantly looking over her shoulder.
Inside, it’s compact and practical. The uneven floorboards creak under each step, and heavy beams stretch across the low ceiling. It’s rustically romantic, and at least no one can sneak up on you in here.
A narrow living room with a squat table and mismatched chairs sits at the front, and a worn sofa is shoved against the wall. A tiny kitchenette hides in one corner, little more than a two-burner stove, kettle, and a humming fridge. The quiet is almost too loud.
Miranda busies herself unpacking the groceries we picked up on the way, while Garrett brings in the rest of our things.
He refused my help, telling me to go inside and explore the place. The fewer people who see me, the better, he said.
So I’m exploring. Beside the living and kitchen area, two doors face each other.
The first leads to a small bedroom with a double bed in a dark oak frame, dressed in plain white linen.
A single wardrobe slouches in the corner, its door warped with age.
The window above the bed looks straight out over the Rhine, the water glinting even in the dark like a silver ribbon slipping past.
The second room is even smaller, two narrow beds pushed together, a desk beneath a shuttered window. Folded blankets wait at the foot. I guess this is going to be my room for the next three days.
Three days of training to be stealthier and a makeover I dread.
Who will I be at the end of this? And will the old me still be there when it’s over?
I shake off the thought and focus on the here and now.
This place is not luxurious. It’s not trying to be. But it’s quiet, out of the way, and from the windows you can see swans drifting with the current and the faint silhouette of Konstanz across the water.
Exactly the kind of place you disappear into.
And right now, disappearing feels far too easy.
Is Tiero going to track us here?
If he does, at least I’ll know about it.
My Tiero-barometer has proven itself painfully accurate today.
The next morning, I look horrified at Miranda when she tips out the contents of various shopping bags onto the table. Hair dyes, scissors, brushes, and hair clips fall out.
“Oh god, you really do want to cut my hair,” I whisper, my face blanching. “Couldn’t we just color it?”
Garrett looks up from his laptop. “No. You need to look completely different. Cutting your hair will be more effective than just a different color.”
I must look forlorn, and Miranda takes pity on me, trying to cheer me up.
“I’ve got something for you from your best friend,” she announces. “Let me tell you, it wasn’t easy to find, and I had to drive a fair distance to get it. But she told me you will need this on the cruise ship to keep you sane, so I persisted.”
Now I’m curious and watch Miranda as she rummages through a bag and produces a gift-wrapped box. She hands it to me, and I shake it.
“What’s in it?”
“Open it and find out.”
I do exactly that, smiling from ear to ear when I unbox a speed-stacking mat and cups.
“That’s brilliant. Thank you so much.”
Rhia really knows how to cheer me up. I love that girl.
“Are these sport-stacking cups?” Miranda asks. “I’ve always wanted to try.”
“Well, it’s your lucky day. I’m more than happy to teach you. How about right now?”
Both Miranda and Garrett chuckle.
“Nice try. It’s makeover time first.”
I groan and begrudgingly sit down on the chair Miranda pulled out and placed in the middle of the room.
“Do you know what you’re doing?” I ask, glancing over my shoulder as she reads the instructions for the hair dye.
She’s a personal shopper, and while I don’t doubt she has great taste when it comes to makeovers, actually doing the cutting and coloring herself is a different story.
“It’s okay. I watched a YouTube video this morning in bed. It looks easy,” she retorts.
She’s kidding, right?
“Ha. The look on your face is priceless,” she laughs. “Don’t fret, honey. I was a hairdresser long before I was a personal shopper. It was pretty much my only career option growing up in a small town. I couldn’t wait to get out of there, but that’s a story for another time.”
She squeezes my shoulders reassuringly, and then, out of nowhere, produces a hairdresser’s cape and wraps me in it.
“I’m proposing to cut your hair first, and then we make you a brunette. These are your color choices.” She points to three different packages of hair dye.
Sweat is gathering on my forehead. I had sworn to myself never to cut my hair short again. I look awful.
“Do we really have to cut it?” I try again.
“Yes,” Miranda says, brushing my hair and wetting it with a spray bottle. “You know, a fresh haircut is a great way to mark a new beginning. It can be a literal trigger for new and better things. It can also be an intense release of emotions.”
God, a release of emotions is the last thing I need right now.
“How short are we talking?” I ask, interrupting her dissertation on the psychology of hairdressing.
“Pixie haircut,” she answers without hesitation.
“Absolutely not! You’re not cutting my hair that short.”
Miranda scowls at me, putting her hands on her hips.
“I’m not changing my mind,” I tell her. “You might as well move on now.”
“Fine. Shoulder length is the longest I’ll do.”
I scrunch up my face. “Okay,” I say through gritted teeth, taking one last look at my golden locks in the mirror on the wall.
I love my hair. It’s the perfect length for me.
It will grow back, I reassure myself.
When Miranda gets the scissors, I squeeze my eyes shut. My stomach knots as my fingers curl around the edge of the chair.
I can’t watch this.