Does the truth even matter? Why dredge up a painful past when it has no bearing on our future? Ever’s mother had beautiful dresses. Dresses that he gave to me. Beyond that, it’s none of my business.

Resolute in my decision, I drag the brush through my hair, but between Ever’s rigorous washing technique and the cold water, the heavy strands are more matted than they’ve ever been.

No wonder the women in his village keep their hair short. I yank the brush out and start again, this time from the bottom. “I should get my hair cut.” At least then, it would be easier to manage.

Behind me, Ever dries himself with quick swipes of his towel before donning a fresh pair of pants, trousers, and wool socks. “Do what pleases you,” he says, fastening the buckle on his belt.

Even watching him complete the most mundane tasks stirs desire within me. I twist a curl around my finger, so unlike an Unseelie woman’s midnight strands. “Would it please you?”

He surprises me by sinking onto the edge of the mattress and gesturing for the brush. I nearly collapse in delight when he begins to comb through small sections a little at a time.

“Shorter hair is more practical,” he says. “But I would mourn the loss. The first day I saw you, I thought your hair looked magical.” He drapes the straight section over my shoulder and starts working on the next. “I must confess to fantasizing about you in nothing but your lavender tresses.”

If he likes it, then perhaps I will keep it for a little while longer. At least until it becomes too much. Then again, if he continues pampering me like this, I might never cut it. “You’re very good at that.”

“My mother wore hers longer than most females in our clan. I would help her brush it sometimes.”

I imagine a miniature Ever combing his mother’s hair. How devastated he must’ve been when he lost her. “Who took care of you when she passed?”

“I took care of myself.”

“But you were only five.” I’m nearly twenty-five and some days I still feel incapable of taking care of myself.

A shrug. “Some of the elders would bring me their leftovers, but everyone had their own families to feed.”

And there I was, balking at bathing in a river. Imagine having to survive on your own when you’re barely out of nappies. It’s a miracle this man is alive.

“What now?” he asks, setting the brush aside and admiring his handiwork.

“It’s easier to manage when it’s braided.” My arms tend to get tired when I fix it myself, so it’s easiest to lie on the bed and let my hair hang off the edge of the mattress while I do.

Ever begins to separate my hair into three sections.

“You know how to braid?”