slits between my ribs on either side, windows to my rib cage, two hideous smiles that seem to grow wider every time I inhale.
And the hair. Goodness, the hair. High tide isn’t for a long time yet, but I’d need a hundred tides to fix the wild, miserable mess above my eyebrows. It’s crisp and brackish and black like a dried piece of seaweed, matted with sand. There is a hairbrush on the table, a comb, some barrettes and ribbons like those Star wears... All useless. There are other things in jars, a small hand mirror and a few shells and stones arranged there...for decoration, I guess. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen anything for decoration. King Wallow thinks that’s useless. It wastes time. For commoners, anyway.
I wrap my hand around a sharp piece of coral. What I need is to start over. To hack it all off. I bring it to the back of my neck, pull a tangled piece taut and am just starting to saw away when I hear, “Oh, no, you don’t!”
I whirl around. Princess Star is staring at me from the doorway. Her eyes widen when she runs her eyes over my scars, as if she’s seen something terrible, as if I’m so much more hideous undressed than she’d possibly imagined. “Those lines on your body,” she gasps.
“Scribbler scars,” I mumble. Instinctively I avert my eyes, then drop to the floor, searching desperately for my tunic, cheeks flaring.
She stands there, confused. “Scars?”
I nod, grabbing for the fabric. Surely she knows about the accident that nearly took my life. It was shortly after that I was forbidden to play with her. My father never said as much, but I knew the scars made me too hideous to be in the company of someone so ethereal.
She rushes forward and tears the coral out of my hand. “I will not have my lady-in-waiting looking like someone’s bottom,” she says. She kicks the tunic away from my grasp and motions to the tub. “Get in.”
Using my hand to shield my skeletal frame from her, I scramble into the tub. The water is warm, but any sense of pleasure I would have gotten from my first real bath ever is gone because she is here. Without warning, she pulls out a very menacing weapon, two horrific blades that move together in an awful, shrieking sound. “What are you—”
“Quiet,” she says, bringing the blades close to my head.
I can’t help it. I scream and duck my head under my arms. When I look up again, she’s standing with the blades in one hand and a knotted ball of my hair in the other. “These are scissors,” she says. “I do not think we will be able to salvage all of your hair, but we should be able to salvage most.”
“Oh.” She continues snipping away, and soon little tangles of my hair blow about on the breeze wafting in from the large picture window. Then she reaches over, grabs my head and dunks me under. I come up, sputtering. “What—”
The next thing I know she is pouring some nice-smelling green stuff onto my hair. She starts to rub it in. This is all so surreal. The princess is washing me. I thought she had servants to do that. I thought she had servants who washed her servants. “Very simple,” she mutters, working it in. I feel her picking through my hair with the comb. She groans. “Just stay still. It’ll all come out. Eventually. Goodness. Have you ever combed your hair?”
“I’ve used my fingers. I do not have a comb.”
“I do think most of the beach is in here.” She reaches over. More green stuff. It smells sweet, like the lavender, but different. Maybe another flower. My dad told me that there once were hundreds of kinds of flowers. I have a drawing of one of them in my book. She starts to comb again. My scalp screams. I think soon I will be bald, despite her best efforts. “I think you will be pleasing to look at once you get this under control. Even with those— scars. ” She says the word as if it’s foreign to her, and I suppose it is.
I snort lavender-scented water out my nose, doubtful, wondering if
And the hair. Goodness, the hair. High tide isn’t for a long time yet, but I’d need a hundred tides to fix the wild, miserable mess above my eyebrows. It’s crisp and brackish and black like a dried piece of seaweed, matted with sand. There is a hairbrush on the table, a comb, some barrettes and ribbons like those Star wears... All useless. There are other things in jars, a small hand mirror and a few shells and stones arranged there...for decoration, I guess. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen anything for decoration. King Wallow thinks that’s useless. It wastes time. For commoners, anyway.
I wrap my hand around a sharp piece of coral. What I need is to start over. To hack it all off. I bring it to the back of my neck, pull a tangled piece taut and am just starting to saw away when I hear, “Oh, no, you don’t!”
I whirl around. Princess Star is staring at me from the doorway. Her eyes widen when she runs her eyes over my scars, as if she’s seen something terrible, as if I’m so much more hideous undressed than she’d possibly imagined. “Those lines on your body,” she gasps.
“Scribbler scars,” I mumble. Instinctively I avert my eyes, then drop to the floor, searching desperately for my tunic, cheeks flaring.
She stands there, confused. “Scars?”
I nod, grabbing for the fabric. Surely she knows about the accident that nearly took my life. It was shortly after that I was forbidden to play with her. My father never said as much, but I knew the scars made me too hideous to be in the company of someone so ethereal.
She rushes forward and tears the coral out of my hand. “I will not have my lady-in-waiting looking like someone’s bottom,” she says. She kicks the tunic away from my grasp and motions to the tub. “Get in.”
Using my hand to shield my skeletal frame from her, I scramble into the tub. The water is warm, but any sense of pleasure I would have gotten from my first real bath ever is gone because she is here. Without warning, she pulls out a very menacing weapon, two horrific blades that move together in an awful, shrieking sound. “What are you—”
“Quiet,” she says, bringing the blades close to my head.
I can’t help it. I scream and duck my head under my arms. When I look up again, she’s standing with the blades in one hand and a knotted ball of my hair in the other. “These are scissors,” she says. “I do not think we will be able to salvage all of your hair, but we should be able to salvage most.”
“Oh.” She continues snipping away, and soon little tangles of my hair blow about on the breeze wafting in from the large picture window. Then she reaches over, grabs my head and dunks me under. I come up, sputtering. “What—”
The next thing I know she is pouring some nice-smelling green stuff onto my hair. She starts to rub it in. This is all so surreal. The princess is washing me. I thought she had servants to do that. I thought she had servants who washed her servants. “Very simple,” she mutters, working it in. I feel her picking through my hair with the comb. She groans. “Just stay still. It’ll all come out. Eventually. Goodness. Have you ever combed your hair?”
“I’ve used my fingers. I do not have a comb.”
“I do think most of the beach is in here.” She reaches over. More green stuff. It smells sweet, like the lavender, but different. Maybe another flower. My dad told me that there once were hundreds of kinds of flowers. I have a drawing of one of them in my book. She starts to comb again. My scalp screams. I think soon I will be bald, despite her best efforts. “I think you will be pleasing to look at once you get this under control. Even with those— scars. ” She says the word as if it’s foreign to her, and I suppose it is.
I snort lavender-scented water out my nose, doubtful, wondering if
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