“Madam! A delight to see you again!” He blinked for a moment. “Your husband is not with you?”

“My brother.” Monza swallowed. “And no, he… won’t be back. I’ve an altogether tougher challenge for you—”

Shivers stepped through the doorway, gawping about as fearfully as a sheep in a shearing pen. She opened her mouth to speak but the barber cut her off. “I believe I see the problem.” He made a sharp circuit of Shivers while the Northman frowned down at him. “Dear, dear. All off?”

“What?”

“All off,” said Monza, taking the barber by the elbow and pressing a quarter into his hand. “Go gently, though. I doubt he’s used to this and he might startle.” She realised she was making him sound like a horse. Maybe that was giving him too much credit.

“Of course.” The barber turned, and gave a sharp intake of breath. Shivers had already taken his new shirt off and was looming pale and sinewy in the doorway, unbuckling his belt.

“He means your hair, fool,” said Monza, “not your clothes.”

“Uh. Thought it was odd, but, well, Southern fashions…” Monza watched him as he sheepishly buttoned his shirt back up. He had a long scar from his shoulder across his chest, pink and twisted. She might’ve thought it ugly once, but she’d had to change her opinions on scars, along with a few other things.

Shivers lowered himself into the chair. “Had this hair all my life.”

“Then it is past time you were released from its suffocating embrace. Head forwards, please.” The barber produced his scissors with a flourish and Shivers lurched out of his seat.

“You think I’m letting a man I never met near my face with a blade?”

“I must protest! I trim the heads of Westport’s finest gentlemen!”

“You.” Monza caught the barber’s shoulder as he backed away and marched him forwards. “Shut up and cut hair.” She slipped another quarter into his apron pocket and gave Shivers a long look. “You, shut up and sit still.”

He sidled back into the chair and clung so tight to its arms that the tendons stood from the backs of his hands. “I’m watching you,” he growled.

The barber gave a long sigh and with lips pursed began to work.

Monza wandered around the room while the scissors snip-snipped behind her. She walked along a shelf, absently pulling the stoppers from the coloured bottles, sniffing at the scented oils inside. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. A hard face, still. Thinner, leaner, sharper even than she used to be. Eyes sunken from the nagging pain up her legs, from the nagging need for the husk that made the pain go away.

You look especially beautiful this morning, Monza…

The idea of a smoke stuck in her mind like a bone in her craw. Each day the need crept up on her earlier. More time spent sick, sore and twitchy, counting the minutes until she could creep off and be with her pipe, sink back into soft, warm nothingness. Her fingertips tingled at the thought, tongue working hungrily around her dry mouth.