Cas scratched the back of his neck. He said to the head minstrel, “Do you know ‘My Horse Thinks He’s a Prince’?”
“Ah!” the head minstrel cried. “I have seven children. Of course we know that one!” He snapped his fingers three times and the trio struck up the familiar tune.
Cas listened for the correct note and then began to sing. He repeated the song twice and the refrain three times. His voice carried no rust, as he had feared, and he found, strangely, that he was enjoying himself. Before the last note ended, the hall had erupted in applause and demands for more. So Cas sang “There’s a Candle in My Ear,” about a boy with too much earwax. Another suggestion by Lady Danna. The last was a request from Lena, “My Beard Is Longer Than Your Beard.” Clara, sitting on a stool and wrapped in a giant towel, clapped her hands. Lena twirled Prince Ventillas in her arms, both of them laughing. She smiled at Cas, and he found he could not look away.
King Rayan applauded. “I would have given him up to the monks, Ventillas. Even without the spare.” And Queen Jehan said, “That was very well done.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
Lady Danna had vanished from Clara’s side. Cas searched the great hall but could not find her. She had gone as quietly as she had come.
One thing soon became clear. Clara’s hair could not be saved. Most of it would have to go, Queen Jehan said. The knots were too many. Tangled, twisted, they could not be undone with a comb. It would take an age, and it would be painful. When Clara heard this, the tears began to fall. It was the first time she had cried. Cas’ heart clenched when she looked at him, eyes wide and pleading. “Hair,” she said.
The second time she had spoken tonight.
Cas took in the women around him, every one of them with long hair. Braided, twisted, rolled, pinned. Black, brown, white, and gray. Whatever the color, however groomed, it was their crowning glory. And it was long. Cas said to the queen, “Surely, Your Grace . . .”
“These knots cannot be undone,” Queen Jehan said, regretful. “It would hurt her tremendously to try.”
Lena returned the baby to Faustina. She knelt before Clara and said, with a bright smile, “What luck! Do you know, I’ve thought about cutting my hair too.” She held up her braid. “It gets in the way of everything. Such a bother. But it is a big decision, I wasn’t sure I was brave enough. Why don’t we both cut our hair? I’ll go first.”
There was a shocked silence. Lena’s hair reached past her waist, a rich, glorious tumble when she wore it loose. Even Queen Jehan murmured, “Analena.”
Lena’s voice was matter-of-fact. “It’s only hair, Jehan. It will grow back if we change our minds.” She brushed a gnarled strand off Clara’s cheek. “What do you say? Yes? We’ll look like sisters!”
Clara had stopped crying. She nodded uncertainly. A pretty nursemaid with hair-trimming skills was summoned to the task. Her name was Esti, and Cas, after a moment, remembered where he had heard the name before. Bittor on a pallet in Palmerin’s great hall, talking in his sleep. Esti. This was Bittor’s goddess. Sure enough, when Cas searched the crowd, he found the soldier leaning against a wall, watching the nursemaid with a foolish expression on his face. Cas shook his head and turned away.
Lena, as promised, went first. When the initial snip was made, several women flinched. Queen Jehan had to look away. Lena’s hair was trimmed so that the waves fell just below her ears, exposing the nape of her neck. When she was done, Lena smiled at Clara and said, “See?”
Clara’s cut mirrored Lena’s. The little girl fell asleep on a pallet by the fire under Faustina’s watchful eye. Lady Danna did not reappear. Once Cas was certain the girl was asleep, he grabbed a torch and picked his way past the bedrolls. Bittor had told him the library was at the back of the house on the first floor. Someone was already there, as he knew she would be. He could see the light of a candle flickering. As he drew closer, the light went out. Undeterred, he walked into a chamber where manuscripts and scrolls lay scattered on the floor, trampled and torn. He located the wisps of smoke coming from behind a table. Lena huddled on the floor, back against a wall, weeping quietly into her hands. Her shoulders shook. She didn’t look up as he placed the torch in a bracket and sat beside her in the dust.
After a moment, he said, “You never once thought about cutting your hair, did you?”
“Never.” Lena spoke into her hands, her words muffled. “Ever. I loved my hair.” A fresh round of sobbing commenced.
“Lena.” And Cas, who did not like to be touched, wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close, tucking her head beneath his chin. “Why did you do it?”
A sniffle. “She looked so sad. And she’s so small. Her family died when she was four, Cas. I don’t understand how she could have been here alone all this time.”
“So you cut your hair?”
“Yes.” Lena wiped her nose with the back of her hand and brooded. “You think I’m vapid and shallow.”
“I think you’re beautiful,” Cas said quietly. “I think you’re kind.”
Lena looked up, startled. Her face was splotchy, her eyes red. Her nose dripped, dripped, dripped.
“Well,” Cas amended, patting around his tunic until he found a handkerchief. “You are usually beautiful.”
Lena laughed. She took the handkerchief and dried her tears and blew her nose. It was made of white linen, with the letters CP embroidered on one corner. Cas of Palmerin. One of the many items that had appeared in his trunk, courtesy of the queen and her tailors.
They sat for a time in silence as the sounds from the great hall grew quieter. Lena spoke first. “Does it still hurt?” She was studying his wrists, where the sleeves inched back, exposing the scars.
Cas did not yank his sleeves down as he wished to. “No.”
“They look like they’re from chains.”
“They are.” From iron cuffs. From trying, whenever the guards turned their backs, to pull himself free.
More silence. “Have you always seen them?” She no longer spoke of chains.
“No,” Cas told her. “When I woke at the hospital, they were there. Everywhere. I don’t know why I can see them. I don’t know why I can only see some of them.”
Izaro had seen a spirit that Cas had not. Hundreds had been buried in Palmerin’s plague graveyard, but Cas had not seen hundreds when he had gone to fetch his brother. Fifty only, no more.
“Do they frighten you?”
“At first,” Cas admitted. “Most of them are confused. Or sad. They’ve never hurt me.” He hesitated, wondering if he should tell her. “Clara’s mother was kneeling by the bathtub.”
Lena stilled. “Lady Danna?”
Cas nodded. “She was dressed in a white nightgown. She told me what Clara’s favorite songs were.”
“Is she still there? Or . . . here?” Lena searched the shadows beyond the torchlight. Her voice had dropped to a whisper.