Chapter 7
On the other side is another smaller, circular mud-walled room. In the center of the room is an old wooden chair. That’s it. No windows, no other furniture, and no other exit.
The wigmaker gestures for me to sit down. I swallow hard and do as she asks, my back straight, my chin up, gripping the dagger still in my hand so tightly that my fingers begin to cramp. It’s a small comfort.
“You won’t need that here, dear,” the wigmaker says, nodding to my blade.
“I’d rather keep it if it’s all the same.”
“Suit yourself. Just know, Boldroc is very fast. If you mean to harm me, you will be dead before you hit the ground.”
I want to argue, I want to tell her the silly statue doesn’t frighten me, that I know her “magic” is nothing but an illusion capitalizing on other people’s gullibility.
Then I remember slicing the hand of the mud man.
I glance down at my dagger, where the smallest amount of dark, reddish-brown mud is flaking off the blade.
No, not mud. Blood. Blood that seems to be old and dried.
It definitely wasn’t there when we walked in.
I keep my dagger clean. I search my memory and can’t seem to recall him standing where he stands now when we walked in.
I can’t immediately find an explanation for any of this so, for now, I bite my tongue and nod once.
“Lean back, dear. This might be painful.”
My heart pounds an uneven beat against my chest. I lean my spine against the back of the creaking wooden chair and take a deep, calming breath while reaching for my pendant.
This may all be absurd but it’s still a little nerve-wracking, and the more time I spend in this mud hut, the more I start to question my own perceptions.
Boldroc, the wigs, the woman, the very shack itself, it all has an undercurrent, a buzz, that I don’t understand and have been trying to ignore.
A slight tickle under my skin that I can’t explain.
The wigmaker places her gnarled hands on my shoulders. I flinch at their icy temperature. “Relax dear.” I can feel her breath on my ear and an uncomfortable shiver works down my spine.
Her hands drag down from my shoulders, across my clavicles, and settle on my chest, just over my heart. I know she can probably feel how hard it’s beating.
Relax Vay. This isn’t real. Let her think she’s taking a couple of years of your life so you don’t lose the whole damn thing when you get home.
She takes a deep breath and, on the exhale, whispers a string of words in a language I’ve never heard.
I wait.
At first, there’s a slight warmth beneath her palm. Then that warmth begins to grow. It moves throughout my body, and my skin begins to feel uncomfortably hot. In a matter of a few breaths, it feels as though my entire body is encased in flame. I clench my jaw to keep from screaming.
There’s a flash of white light so bright I have to close my eyes, then cold.
The heat that was spreading through my body is swiftly replaced with ice.
It feels as though my very blood has frozen inside my heart.
The wigmaker backs away from me and I wrap my arms around myself to try to warm my core, my limbs, my heart.
I turn to face her, and I could swear she looks marginally younger, a few wrinkles smoothed out. But that must just be my mind playing tricks on me. A trick of the light perhaps.
She glides toward the curtain and holds it open, waiting for me.
I stand and cross in front of her with my head held high, willing the cold in my veins to subside.
I can’t wait to get back into the warm summer morning.
I try not to think about the cause, the reason I’m so cold.
It has to be this hut, the windowless room, the creepy nature of the wigmaker.
It is not because I’ve just lost two years of my life.
Have I?
I maneuver my way through the wigs and furniture to stand beside Isi. She reaches down and takes my hand in hers. It’s nearly as frozen as mine.
The wigmaker snatches the lover’s hair off the bench and glides over to us, handing me the wig and a small hand mirror.
Isi helps me get the wig over my bald head and settled into place.
I glance in the mirror. The color is a little darker than mine, and it’s a bit shorter than what mine was, but it will have to do.
I nod at the wigmaker and turn on my heel. I eye Boldroc as I pass him, his hand still fixed in place at the height of my shoulder. There’s no way he moved. It’s impossible.
Isn’t it?
I shake my head, deciding not to think too much about it as I burst out of her mud hut and into the bright, warm morning sun, only slightly diluted by the acrid mist that always hovers over the Rookery. Isi’s close on my heels. I never want to see this place again.
As we stroll through the streets back to the bordello, I can’t stop scratching at the wig.
“I think that woman sold me a wig with mites!” I complain as I scratch under the wig again.
“If you don’t stop shifting it around on your head, we will have wasted two years for nothing,” she grumbles.
“You don’t actually believe that, do you?” I drop my hand from my scalp, trying to ignore the itch.
“Yes.” She doesn’t elaborate.
“Why?” I press.
“I just do!” she snaps.
“Isi.” I grab her hand, stopping her footsteps. I look into her eyes and wait for her to tell me what’s bothering her.
“I’m sorry. I just . . .” Her eyes glaze as she stares over my shoulder.
“Just what?” I press.
“Nothing. Never mind.” She shakes her head and plasters a phony smile on her face. One I’ve only ever seen directed at the patrons at the bordello. My heart sinks a little. She’s never been fake with me.
“I’m starving!” She gives my hand a squeeze, then twirls and practically skips down the alley toward the secret side door.
I watch her, an uncomfortable knot forming in the pit of my stomach.
I’ve seen her mood swings before, but there’s something different about this one.
Something is eating at her. I don’t understand why she won’t just talk to me about it.
I’m usually much more patient, knowing she’ll talk when she’s ready, but this feels different.
She’s hiding something from me. Something important.
“Are you coming?” Her soft voice carries down the alley. I sigh and follow.
I poke my head through the door to the larder while Isi rearranges the potatoes and flour in front of our secret escape. No one’s in the kitchen.
“Clear.”
I open the door fully. Then stop dead, my heart plummeting to my feet.
In the doorway to the kitchen is Otyx, his arms crossed over his thin chest.
“What, may I ask, are you doing in my larder?” he asks, his voice deadly calm.
“Looking for something to eat,” Isi says behind me. I can feel the panic blooming in my chest, the tingling in my fingers.
“You already had breakfast.” His eyes flick from me to Isi and back again. There’s no light in them, no warmth.
Isi comes around and stands just behind my right shoulder. “I had an early client and Vayna was out picking the pockets of the early risers,” she says without missing a beat.
Otyx uncrosses his arms and inches toward us. I stand as still as I can in the doorway of the larder, barely daring to breathe. Even the hair on my arms stands at attention. As unnerved by him as I am, I refuse to give him a clear path to Isi.
“If that’s the case, where are your pickings, Vayna? And more to the point, where’s my money, Isirae?” He’s standing so close to us now I can smell his rotted breath.
Isi digs in her pocket and produces some coins. She gently nudges me out of her way and hands them to Otyx.
“This isn’t your usual rate.” If possible, my heart sinks even lower, and my vision begins to blur.
“That’s all he would pay me.” Isi hangs her head in contrition. “Said that’s all I was worth.”
He watches her for several moments, waiting to see if she’ll trip over her lie. I have little doubt he knows she’s lying, it’s just a matter of whether or not he’ll choose to press her.
He turns his attention to me. I swallow hard. He holds his hand out.
I look at it, then back into his muddy eyes. “I didn’t get anything.” I loathe how small my voice is.
“What do you mean ‘didn’t get anything’?” He enunciates each word, tasting them.
I shrug, trying to act unconcerned even as the room starts to spin. Calm down Vay. He won’t notice the wig.
“Turns out, there aren’t many early risers in the Rookery. I couldn’t snatch purses without being caught so I didn’t take much.”
“Didn’t take much?” Otyx repeats slowly. “‘Much’ means something. ‘Much’ means you’re holding out on me. Need I remind you what happens when you try to skim from me?” He’s standing so close that I have to crane my neck to look him in the eye even though he isn’t much taller than me.
“I swear Otyx, I don’t have anything.” Something finally flashes in the darkness of his eyes. Something I do not like.
“How many times have I told you? You may only refer to me as Master.” His voice is calm, quiet, poisonous.
“Right. I’m sorry, Master. I’ll do better.” I bow my head in submission, praying he lets me off with a warning. After last night’s beating, I’m not sure I can take another. My nose still throbs, and the two black eyes I have are only growing darker.
He reaches up and runs his fingers through the hair on my wig. “Your hair is different.”
My heart stutters. My breathing comes in short bursts. I try desperately to smother the panic I feel building inside me. I’m so close to losing the battle against it.
“Is it? I haven’t done anything to it.”
“It’s a different shade of red. And it’s shorter.”
My skin crawls. How close does he watch me to notice that? “My hair changes with the sun sometimes. And it must just be curlier today to make it seem shorter.” The lies roll off my tongue.
“Hm.” He runs his hand from my scalp to the ends.
Please, gods, please don’t pull it.
He wraps some around his fingers and lifts it to his nose, taking a deep, rattling inhale. A sour taste floods my mouth as I try not to gag.
“It smells . . . musty. It usually smells like flowers.”
“I slept in it wet last night,” I whisper.
“Hm.”
By the gods and goddesses, let him believe me.
He drops my hair and spins on his heel. “Get out there and earn your breakfast, you little wretch,” he says to me over his shoulder.
My stomach rumbles in response but I keep my mouth shut until I hear his office door down the hall open and then close.
I take a deep, gulping breath and turn to Isi. “Fuck. That was so fucking close!” The panic and fear is replaced quickly by adrenaline spiking in my veins.
She nods. “Too close. And watch your language!”
I laugh hard and loud as she walks back into the larder, grabs some hardtack, hands a loaf to me, then ushers me out of the kitchen and down the hall, to the front door.
“Better do as he says. Don’t give him a reason to find out our little secret.” She winks at me and then traipses back out into the sunlight. I wonder where she’s going. She should be going upstairs to sleep. She’s swallowed up by the crowd before I can ask.
I bite into the hard, flavorless brick and step out to begin my work for the day.
It’s still early, the sun only now cresting the tops of the buildings surrounding the bordello.
I decide I need to make Berttom happy to get his attention off me, to blind him with enough coin that he doesn’t look too closely at me, at Isi.
It may be my only chance to get to the other side of this unscathed.
He clearly noticed something was amiss, noticed my hair was different, and caught Isi and I coming out of the larder.
What if he finds the door? What if he seals it up and us along with it?
This place could become my tomb if I’m not careful.
No. I will steal so much gold, coin, jewelry, and everything else I can get my sticky little fingers on that Otyx will be so impressed, he’ll forget or at least won’t care about everything he saw this morning.
I won’t even take my share. I’ll prove how valuable I am to him, that he can’t afford to lose me.
Because at the end of the day, all Otyx Berttom truly cares about in this world is riches.