“True,” she said. “There are probably far more engaging sights if the rumors are true, about how little some of the court women wear.”

“The women of court are not to my taste.”

“You have a taste?”

A glare. “No, I have better things to occupy my mind, in and out of court.”

And that, she mused, was truly a shame, but sadly not unexpected.

He continued. “If I have any knowledge of women’s hair fashions, it comes from my mother, which won’t help you at all. Your hair could not be more dissimilar.” He paused, then hunkered down, tilting his head. “There is a style I have seen some men wear, those with your sort of hair. Men too vain to cut it short.”

“Vanity is not my issue. I would gladly—”

“Yes, yes, I know. Which is why I’m devising solutions. What the men do is braid the sides, perhaps a hand’s span of hair, then tie them together. The back stays untethered, but as long as the sides are held, it seems to work.”

“Unless I get caught in a thunder hawk’s talons again.”

“I’m trusting that’s a once-per-lifetime experience. Now, take the hair . . .”

“If you ever tell anyone of this . . .” Gavril warned as he worked on the second braid.

“Is that a threat, Kitsune?”

“Yes.” He tightened the braid. “Yes, it is.”

She’d attempted to do her hair herself, and thought she was doing a fine job, but apparently, it hadn’t been to his standards. After several fruitless attempts to correct her technique, he’d taken over.

“Given that I promised not to tell anyone you’re a sorcerer—or that you admitted fear in battle—I’m certainly not going to tell anyone you braided my hair. And truly, can you imagine any conversation in which the subject would arise?”

He tugged a braid and grumbled under his breath, but it was a good-natured grumble—or as close to good-natured as Gavril seemed capable of. They’d had to trek out of the storm-struck area to find dry wood for fire, and he hadn’t said an unkind word in all that time. He was still prickly, of course, and argumentative and difficult, but that was to be expected.

When he finished, he pulled back the braids and surveyed his work. “Now we need to find something to tie it with. You had a band . . .”

“Which came out when the thunder hawk decided to restyle my hair. I can pull a strip of fabric off my other tunic—”

“No, it’ll unravel.” He took one of his own braids and pulled off the band.

As he fastened it in her hair, she asked, “Why don’t you have beads, like other warriors? Is it a family custom?”

“No. I don’t see the need. Colored beads are for show. Like a peacock’s plumage.”

“Like those?” She gestured at his tattooed forearms.