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Alys snorted. It was a pretty, artful sound, and she tossed her head as she made it, a habitual movement that flicked her hair neatly. “As if I know hair or have cosmetics.”
“You do, on both counts.”
Alys looked up, irritation written across her face. “Even if I did, I’m not helping you. Hire a maid, if that’s what you need.”
“I don’t want to hire a maid. I want your help.”
“How unfortunate for you that you aren’t going to get what you want.”
Clare smiled. “Oh, but I am. Because if you don’t help me, I am going to start asking around to find out who you really are.”
Alys's fingers clenched on the rag in her hand. She relaxed them quickly, but not before Clare saw. “Ask away. Women like me are a dime a dozen.”
“Stable girls with brown hair and forgettable faces are a dime a dozen,” Clare agreed. “But women who move like they’re court-trained, with auburn hair and blue eyes and scars that run across half their faces? Those are much less common.”
Alys went completely still.
“I’m singing at Prince Numair’s nameday celebration this evening,” Clare continued. “I wonder, if I very loudly keep asking about a woman with that description, who there might be able to give me your name.”
Alys set the saddle aside and stood, stalking toward Clare. “The Arrendons said you were a Songweaver.”
“I am.”
“Songweavers don’t see under glamour.” Her gaze caught on the jewel in Clare’s ears, and sarcasm limned her voice. “Not even black diamonds.”
Clare resisted touching her fingers to the earring newly pierced through her lobe. Her only response was a careless shrug.
Upon deducing Clare wasn’t going to respond, Alys snapped, “What do you want?”
“I already told you. Hair. Cosmetics. Current popular topics of conversation.”
“That’s it?”
“Well…that, and a supply of the glamour that hides your scar.” The glamour was the real reason she needed Alys. Her help with appearance would be useful, but Clare could manage that on her own. What she couldn’t manage on her own was the number of scars that would be visible given the backless nature of her expensive new dress.
Alys gave her a considering look, as if she was putting Clare’s true purpose together. “It won’t make you prettier. It isn’t that kind of glamour.”
“How fortunate, then, that I’m pretty enough.”
Alys didn’t answer.
Clare turned and made to walk out. “Well, if I don’t look quite right tonight, at least I’ll have the very interesting topic of you to keep people from getting bored with me.”
She was halfway out of the barn before Alys called, “Wait.”
Clare halted and turned back.
“I make you look good tonight and you’ll leave it alone? Leave me alone?”
“I won’t promise not to find out who you are—curiosity’s in my nature—but I promise to be discreet about it, and can keep it to myself, once I do. I have no interest in being your enemy, Alys. But I do need your help and I am pressed for time, so I’m getting it the guaranteed way.”
Alys shook her head. “You’re a strange woman.”
Clare shrugged. “You’ll do it, then?”
Alys looked like she’d rather strangle her. “I’ll do it.”
Clare held out her hand. “Glamour now, then meet me in my room in half an hour.”
