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I put a hand up to my head. How utterly surreal that I could have forgotten. That I could have pulled off that headscarf with the oatmeal dress and forgotten. I wanted to dash back behind the screen, somehow hide and still pretend that we were having a girlish afternoon trying on clothes.
But I was a deer frozen in the road. Locked in place by Starling’s horrified gaze.
She set down her wineglass and edged up to the end of the chaise. She had kicked off her flats and tucked one petite bare foot up under her. Now she folded her hands in her lap, a gesture of her mother’s.
“Fix it,” she said.
I just stared at her, one hand still on my bristly, scabby scalp.
“Fix it,” she insisted. “You’re graduated now, right? Free to do whatever magic you want to? And don’t tell me it would be easier to wear a wig.” She reached back to grab her wineglass. “Now’s your opportunity. What kind of hair did you always, always want when you were a little girl? Me? I wanted golden hair. There was this neighbor girl—full breed—like dew-on-the-morning-grass gorgeous, eyes blue as the sky, floating golden hair, delicate pink butterfly wings. Titania, I hated the little bitch.”
I laughed, a little. Such a frivolous conversation. Her words eroded my numbness.
Starling leaned forward. “Lady Gwynn—it’s hair. Just fix it. Make it what you want.”
“I always wanted long black hair.”
“Oh, and that would be great with your green eyes, though I imagine you could change those, too, if you wanted to. Do it!”
She was right, I could do this. I was the dog so used to being beaten that I wouldn’t leave the yard even though the gate was open. And I needed to practice a great deal, to perfect what I knew and to explore the possibilities. Of course I should do this.
“Is there a mirror?” I asked.
Starling gestured to an alcove. She followed me, avid interest on her face, wineglass in her hand. “Is it okay if I watch? I almost never get to see real magic being performed. Mother doesn’t want me getting ideas.”
“I don’t mind. Just be very quiet and don’t distract me.”
I focused on my image in the mirror and tried not to flinch. I looked like Sinead O’Connor after a bad acid trip…and a bar fight.
I should have looked at myself before now. One thing I’d learned—painfully—was that if you were going to muck about with the state of reality via magic, you’d better have a firm grip on what really existed in the first place. There was no room for kidding yourself about what was real. No cutting yourself slack that, oh, you didn’t really mean that nasty thought about such and so. Because meaning it, intending it, was what connected the idea to the spark—and it became real like a bomb exploding.
I could be taught.
So first, I had to see my hair as it was now. The old stories had it right, that facing yourself in the mirror as you truly were was the ultimate test of character. Not just to recognize the ugliness, but also the beauty. Everything in its balance. I carefully built the image in my mind of what I wanted and searched my heart for the emotion to make it real. WhatIwanted.
Then I waited.
The magic didn’t happen immediately, like in a Las Vegas stage show, with a flash of light and a puff of smoke. No. Real magic flowed on its own timeline.
And there it was. My shaved scalp with its scabs, stubble and awkward bristles was gone as if it had never been. Now shining black hair waved gently around my face, flowing down my back. I’d fixed the bruises on my face while I was at it. I’d fix what I could of the rest later, when I had the leisure to strip.
“Wow,” Starling breathed. “That’s fascinating. It’s not like it happened fast, but it’s more that I didn’t even notice the change. Iknowin my head that you have different hair now, but a big part of me is convinced you’ve always been this way. Is that illusion?” She reached out to stroke the silky hair, letting it run through her fingers.
“No. No illusion. This is as real as it gets.” I shook my head, letting the new hair settle around me. It was recognizablymyhair, just a different color and shape, but the same familiar texture. I looked the way I’d always wanted to—the sparkling black accenting a complexion that glowed in snowy smooth contrast. Green eyes blazed at me in the mirror and I recognized the woman who’d had enough and walked out of that cocktail party. And there was the younger woman I’d been, full of ambition and the love of science. For the first time in years, she looked pleased.
Better, she looked powerful.
Chapter 12
The Calm Before the Storm
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“What wouldn’t Igive to be able to do that?” Starling sighed.
“It’s easy to think of sacrifices in theory.” My voice sounded a bit too sharp. I took a deep breath.Let it go. “In practice you might find yourself…regretting the price you paid.”
She nodded gravely. Her gaze rested on my arm, where the tapered sleeve of my gown revealed raised scars the whips had cut into me. I tugged the cuff over the marks and she looked away.
