She turned, snatched up the scribe’s pages and raged away as if she were the storm she had warned them about. I kept my eyes lowered, watching them only through my eyelashes. Coultrie reached down. He had a pocket somewhere in those loose trousers for he drew out a key on a thick brass chain and unclipped it. He handed it to the twice-stunned guard. ‘I go to help Capra, for I fear she is right. I never should have listened to you two. This may be the end of us.’
He did not storm off but went like a shamed dog, head down and shoulders hunched. Fellowdy and Symphe looked at one another. And then Symphe snapped at the guard, ‘Well, take charge of her! Do you imagine I will entrust you with my key? Let us lock her up and then I suppose I must go join Capra and Coultrie, to be sure I get the whole truth. Girl! Move.’
And move I did, with the guard’s big hand on my shoulder, pushing me along. He was tall and long-legged, and more than once I stumbled as we left that room and went through yet more corridors and up a different flight of stairs. This time, we entered the hall of cells from the opposite end. I could get a glimpse of the man who owned the black hands and rich voice. He was sitting on his bed, his hands folded loosely between his knees. His cell was kinder than mine. It had a little table, a small rug, and a real bed, with blankets. As I passed, he lifted his head and smiled. His eyes were black, as gleaming a black as the rest of him. He caught my gaze as if he had been waiting for me to pass, but said not a word.
They locked me in, the guard fumbling a bit with the two keys, and then they left me. I sat down on my bed and wondered what would next befall me.
Spark stepped to the railing. She opened her hand, and Lant’s curling locks were blown away in the ever-present ocean breeze. He stood up from the barrel, and rubbed both his hands over his shorn head. His eyes were red-rimmed. He stepped away from the barrel and I sat down on it.
‘How short?’ she asked me.
‘To the scalp,’ I replied hoarsely.
Lant twitched and turned back to me. ‘He wasn’t your father!’ he objected.
I could have argued that with him. But it seemed pointless and I was tired of pain. If my shearing my hair for mourning as if Chade were my father was painful to Lant, I need not do it. Chade would never know and it would not change the depth of my loss. ‘The flat of your hand,’ I said.
I felt her set her hand on top of my head. Her fingers closed to hold my hair upright and she began snipping. My hair was not nearly as long as Lant’s had been. Spark piled the clippings into Per’s hands. There was a lot more grey in it than I’d realized there would be.
Not my father. I’d never met my father, but Burrich had near-shaved my head for mourning when Chivalry had died. Yet when Burrich had died, I’d not cut my hair at all. I listened to her scissors snipping and thought about that. I’d been on Aslevjal Island, and the news of his death had come to me in a Skill-message, just as tidings of Chade’s death had. Why hadn’t I cut my hair? No scissors. No time. The gesture had seemed too small. I’d still been a bit angry with him for wedding Molly. So many reasons and no reason at all. Perhaps it was not wanting it to be real. I didn’t know any more. Who had that young man been who had thought himself so old and worldly-wise? He was a stranger to me now.
‘It’s done,’ Spark said in a husky voice and I realized it had been some time since I’d heard the snick of the blades.
