The Empty Throne. Cayla KluverЧитать онлайн книгу.
we had dispensed with the business aspects of the transaction, Aleksandra led me behind the curtain. The room in which we now stood had been partitioned into several workstations, and she signaled that I should take a seat in a raised chair in one of them. I obliged, then pulled down my hood.
“Well, well,” she murmured, surveying the tangles and debris embedded in my hair, her hands gripping her hips. “You are aware it is not illegal to use a brush?”
I gritted my teeth, determined to see this through, no matter how humiliating the experience might be.
“Do not dismay—I will fix. Now, do you have a color in mind? Darker would be easiest.”
“But darker would not be a dramatic change. I don’t want to look like myself at all.”
“I see. Not that I blame you. This appearance can definitely be improved.” She tapped her index finger against her chin, considering. “Blond or golden it is, then. This is accomplished with a somewhat caustic mixture of potassium lye, alum, honey, and black sulfur, so results vary.”
I flinched at the term caustic, picturing all my hair falling out. But my mind was made up. Even though Faefolk tended to scorn anything but natural hair color, I would see this through and regain the ability to move freely around the city. Madam Donetsky appeared not to notice my reaction and continued to think out loud.
“Let’s see. With red, I believe we will end up with a yellow or orange-yellow tint.”
“Orange?” I blurted, becoming more and more fretful.
“Not orange, my dear. More the lovely pale color of cheese.”
I sighed. “Cheese it is.”
Although I didn’t appreciate her glibness, her comments did bring one issue to mind—at some point, I’d want my natural color back.
“Could you cut a small lock of hair off for me? I want to keep it for comparison.”
“I suspect you’ll have plenty to choose from. Some of these knots would do a sailor proud. I’ll have no choice but to cut them out.”
I nodded, and she went to work, placing the first snip in my hand.
Several hours later, my scalp feeling raw and my eyes burning, the hairdresser declared her work done and led me to a mirror draped with a scarf.
“Ready to see?”
I took a deep breath and nodded, and she swept away the scarf. The yellow-blond hair that framed my face was clean, shiny, and beautiful, though not quite in keeping with my complexion. My face looked sallower, but I didn’t mind. I barely knew myself, and I couldn’t have been happier.
“You approve?” she asked.
“I approve.” I smiled so broadly my face felt stretched. “And I’ll be sure to recommend your services to my acquaintances.”
“Not necessary, dear. In fact, please don’t.”
I laughed, then gathered my belongings and bid her good day. I would return to the neighborhood of the Fae-mily Home, the part of Tairmor with which I was most familiar, grabbing a bite to eat along the way. Only this time, I wouldn’t bother to pull up my hood.
DAY OF JUDGMENT
Although my appearance had significantly changed, I dared not risk renting a room for the night, for inns asked questions, required names, and checked travel documents. Nor could I stay the night at a shelter. The Constabularies were still cataloguing the homeless, and whether they recognized me or not, my forged travel papers had been obtained to represent me as human rather than to conceal my identity. Even the Fae-mily Home was out of the question, for it would be among the first places Luka’s men would look. After all, it was the Lieutenant Governor who had sent me to Fi when he’d learned of the loss of my wings during our original meeting in the Governor’s mansion.
I leaned against a storefront wall, idly watching a custodian light a gas lamp on the street corner while I weighed my options. In more affluent parts of the city, lampposts practically lined the streets. But here they were scattered, their solitary pools of amber light leaving much of the area in the clutches of the darkness—and making wandering the streets at night potentially hazardous.
I blew on my hands, for despite the advent of spring, the temperature dropped once the sun went down. Street folk were beginning to congregate around trash cans, bringing scraps of wood and waste for use in lighting the fires that would provide some modicum of warmth and comfort. Knowing I was in for a long night, I entered the alley in which I had earlier rested. Its proximity to the human shelter gave me a sense of security, however false it might prove to be. With my pack for a pillow, and some garbage deftly rearranged to provide insulation from the chill of the ground, I wrapped my cloak around me and fell into an exhausted sleep.
* * *
“Are you coming?” I asked Ione, Evangeline having already agreed to accompany me. “We’re going to the Crag. Everyone’s saying Zabriel and some of the other boys are going to take the plummet.”
Ione’s face pinched with worry. “But, Anya, the Crag is off-limits by decree of the Queen. And the plummet itself has been outlawed by the Queen’s Council.”
I laughed. “That’s why they’re more determined than ever to do it.”
“Decide,” Evangeline cut in. “Or we’ll get there too late to see it. We have to climb up to the ledge—if anyone saw us flying around that part of the mountain, they’d know what we were up to.”
“You said Zabriel will be there?”
Knowing the decision had been made, for a single glance from my cousin made Ione weak in the knees, I nodded.
By the time we reached our destination, the boys were already there, joking, bragging, and swigging Sale.
“Well, if it isn’t my cousin,” Zabriel pronounced, gaze landing on me. “Come to cheer us on? Or shut us down?”
“I’d say we’re here to witness your stupidity. And that’s a force not even I can stop.”
Laughter filled the air, and Zabriel, a huge grin lighting up his dark brown eyes, motioned toward a couple of boulders. “Right this way, ladies. Front-row seats from which to watch the daring young men of Chrior.”
Evangeline skipped past him to stand on one of the rocks, leaving me to take Ione’s hand and follow, for she was gazing moon-eyed at my cousin, her cheeks a vivid pink. From where we now stood, I could see the tops of the trees and the catwalks of the city far below. The view made me dizzy, and the thought of what these boys were about to do made me slightly sick to my stomach.
Zabriel’s expression sobered, then he turned from us to address his group of followers.
“Since some of you are here for the first time, let me make the nature of this challenge clear. We call it the plummet for good reason. What you do is tuck your wings tightly against your back, then step off the ledge, falling as far as you dare before opening your wings. If you wait too long, you’ll crash to certain injury and possible death. Even worse, your attempt won’t count if you don’t land safely.”
A few nervous chuckles followed Zabriel’s explanation, but from the look on a couple of the boys’ faces, not everyone would take the dare this day.
“Who’s first?” Zabriel asked, scanning his fellows. “Since I’m the record holder, I’ll go last.”
“I’ll start,” replied a young man named Cobi, who at the age of fifteen was