I see. [It's one of those knowing (and doubtful) sounds. But--] Well, in my own experience I'd say a tight plait breeds a headache rather than curing it. But perhaps my scalp is over sensitive.
[Laura does as told, in silent consideration all the while. Matthias' hair is very short, while Fitcher's isn't. Her experience carries a sort of weight Matthias' suggestion doesn't.
[Separating her dark hair into three sections, Fitcher says,] We should give Matthias the benefit of the doubt and try it. If you find it isn't helpful, I will redo it.
[Her grip on Laura's hair is firm, steady, a sturdy series of not quite tugs as she begins to braid.]
[Laura gives a slight nod, wanting to acknowledge Fitcher's suggestion without making the process of braiding more difficult. As sick as she looked earlier, Fitcher's fingers are deft and sure.
It's comforting, somehow, to feel someone else's hands in her hair, present because they're wanted and working with a slow steadiness. She's reminded of the feel of her mother's shoulder against her cheek, just before she was prodded into sitting up straight.]
She is very soft. But she has her own mind. [That is the thing she likes best about the kitten.] Her name is Philliam. Or Biter.
Philliam is very pretty. But Biter [she says, the curve of her tone pleasant despite the rasp of illness in her voice. Tug, go her fingers] is an excellent name for a cat.
Philliam is a bard. [Exclamation point. She read a book, about nugs and foxes, with his name on the cover and liked it. Her own voice has a sort of airy distance to it, despite its hoarseness, as if she's being lulled by the sensation of the little pulls against her scalp.] Biter was Matthias' suggestion.
[It's the fever, but there is a kind of pleasure in this - the winding of dark hair, the tug which solidifies each row of the plait. She can't remember the last time she braided a girl's hair, though logically she knows it must have been forty years ago in a narrow interior courtyard in the dye and fabric districts of a place in Antiva. A sister or a cousin, maybe.]
[She hasn't settled on which one, mostly because she mislikes several of the options. But surely friend is no longer accurate. A pause, thoughtful, and then--]
The kitten does not bite. But she could. I think that is why.
Kissing a boy shouldn't make him not a friend, [is her arch opinion on the whole matter.
And then she has reached the bottom of the plait. With a deft turn of the cord at the behest of nimble fingers, the braid is bound and turned over Laura's shoulder]
[But differentiation. Classifying things accurately. Strange feelings. She reaches for the tail of the braid, brushing the ends of her hair against her palm. When she drops it over her shoulder, it hits her back; she spends a moment tilting her head back and forth, feeling the bound cord swinging like a tiny weight.
[It's at once mesmerizing and disappointing to watch Fitcher's hair come down--less because it's unimpressive unbound and more because Laura's fingers itch to brush it out herself. She isn't sure why.
Once it is loose, Fitcher looks like somebody else--as surprising as finding her reclining in bed rather than at work on something, perhaps. (Laura resolves to look in a mirror after this and see if she looks like a different person, too, with her hair drawn back from her face.)
She touches Fitcher's hair tentatively, gathering it up in her hands and smoothing it out. It occurs to her that she's not sure she's ever touched someone else's hair before. As she divides it into three sections, she takes a chance on questioning her.]
[She's staring at the strands of hair in her hands, trying to decide the best way to start. One hand must hold two strands of hair, but which hand? Laying the cord over and over itself was easier when it was lying horizontal on the bed.
But she gives it a try, crossing one over the center and then frowning at her hands. Now one hand must hold all three strands. Her pinkie finger closes around the traveling strand of hair, and it quickly ends up merged with the other outside section. Laura takes hold of the center with her free hand, then finds herself trying to re-divide the other two.
[She considers this--and also using her mouth to keep the hair separate, though she dismisses that idea immediately--as she lets go of Fitcher's hair and starts again.]
[Try number two at holding Fitcher's hair and keeping it all separate: somewhat successful. She gets a strand crossed over without mixing it all up. Now to try to do it again, but backwards.]
[There are lies or half truths she might tell now. But what is the harm in it? If the man in question one day is found with a knife between the ribs, it might be prudent to have some unconnected party aware of the alleged depths of her affections.]
He is the Ferelden gentlemen who makes such a nuisance of himself on the crystals, the head of Diplomacy - Messere Rutyer.
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Here. [She takes the brush.] Turn around.
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So, inevitably--]
It does not have to be very tight.
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[Her grip on Laura's hair is firm, steady, a sturdy series of not quite tugs as she begins to braid.]
How is your kitten?
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It's comforting, somehow, to feel someone else's hands in her hair, present because they're wanted and working with a slow steadiness. She's reminded of the feel of her mother's shoulder against her cheek, just before she was prodded into sitting up straight.]
She is very soft. But she has her own mind. [That is the thing she likes best about the kitten.] Her name is Philliam. Or Biter.
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[There are two kinds of people.]
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[It's the fever, but there is a kind of pleasure in this - the winding of dark hair, the tug which solidifies each row of the plait. She can't remember the last time she braided a girl's hair, though logically she knows it must have been forty years ago in a narrow interior courtyard in the dye and fabric districts of a place in Antiva. A sister or a cousin, maybe.]
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[She hasn't settled on which one, mostly because she mislikes several of the options. But surely friend is no longer accurate. A pause, thoughtful, and then--]
The kitten does not bite. But she could. I think that is why.
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And then she has reached the bottom of the plait. With a deft turn of the cord at the behest of nimble fingers, the braid is bound and turned over Laura's shoulder]
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[But differentiation. Classifying things accurately. Strange feelings. She reaches for the tail of the braid, brushing the ends of her hair against her palm. When she drops it over her shoulder, it hits her back; she spends a moment tilting her head back and forth, feeling the bound cord swinging like a tiny weight.
It is unobjectionable.
Turning around, she adds--]
And now I will braid your hair.
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It takes a few minutes to untangle. When loose, her hair is long and its coarseness seems more plain than when she wears it in twists or with pins.]
I haven't anything to tie it with. But that's all right; it's for practice anyway.
[It takes some effort to rearrange herself in the bed, twisting to give Laura access.]
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Once it is loose, Fitcher looks like somebody else--as surprising as finding her reclining in bed rather than at work on something, perhaps. (Laura resolves to look in a mirror after this and see if she looks like a different person, too, with her hair drawn back from her face.)
She touches Fitcher's hair tentatively, gathering it up in her hands and smoothing it out. It occurs to her that she's not sure she's ever touched someone else's hair before. As she divides it into three sections, she takes a chance on questioning her.]
Do you have a lover?
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I have a friend.
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[She's staring at the strands of hair in her hands, trying to decide the best way to start. One hand must hold two strands of hair, but which hand? Laying the cord over and over itself was easier when it was lying horizontal on the bed.
But she gives it a try, crossing one over the center and then frowning at her hands. Now one hand must hold all three strands. Her pinkie finger closes around the traveling strand of hair, and it quickly ends up merged with the other outside section. Laura takes hold of the center with her free hand, then finds herself trying to re-divide the other two.
This is slightly more difficult than it looks.]
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He kisses me. When I want him to.
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Who is he?
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Are you familiar with the Ambassador?
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I am not sure.
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It isn't terribly important.
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[Try number two at holding Fitcher's hair and keeping it all separate: somewhat successful. She gets a strand crossed over without mixing it all up. Now to try to do it again, but backwards.]
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He is the Ferelden gentlemen who makes such a nuisance of himself on the crystals, the head of Diplomacy - Messere Rutyer.
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[ She says it unenthusiastically, and then says nothing more. The braid continues slowly,messy and too loose but not snarled. ]
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Do you disapprove?
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You should kiss who you want.
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