“Still.” Her upper lip curled. “You bought her a house?”

“Yeah.”

“Mm.”

“To get her off my back mostly. Obligation fulfilled.”

“What obligation?” Brella spat. “She didn’t seem particularly obliged to care for you, Scratch.”

“Oh, didn’t she? I hardly noticed.” She raised a hand to stroke Brella’s stiff arm. The muscles jumped. “She isn’t worth this. But, uh, I do appreciate it.”

“Mm. I’d like to—” Brella clamped her lips together, startling a laugh out of Scratch.

“What? Storm her house? Brella, she’s been through hells, too.”’

“I know lots of people who have dealt with the worst sort of shit, and they don’t go around treating their kids like . . . like . . .”

Scratch shook her head. “You can’t go back in time and teach her how to be a mother. Or, I don’t know, maybe you can. Maybe the Between will drop you off outside her old shack and you can bust through the door and shout the house down.”

“Mm. I don’t want to teach her, Scratch.”

“What?”

“I don’t want to teach her how to be a good mother. I want to throw her through a window.”

Scratch’s laugh erupted so suddenly it nearly frightened her. It was loud enough to bounce off the trees. “Charming. I appreciate it.” And she did. It was odd perhaps, that she might take Brella’s threat of doing bodily harm to Purpose Keyes as a kindness. And yet . . .

Brella stared at her for a moment, eyes glowing bright. “Do you want to braid my hair?”

The whiplash made her brain rattle. She giggled, laughter spilling out of her. “Braid your hair?”

Brella nodded, pulling a few strips of leather from her apron. “I can do it myself, of course, but it’s better when Vel does it. I saw you doing Tempest’s hair, so I thought . . .”

“Sure.”

Brella’s hair was soft in her hands, and not as thick as she had imagined. The curls and waves had the illusion of density, but when Scratch squeezed, the hair gave way, thin and easy to separate into halves. Brella handed her a comb, and she drew a straight line in Brella’s scalp with it. Scratch had known a menial task would calm her. As she drew the strands through her fingers, she felt her shoulders loosen, and the nervous laughter subsided. The act seemed to have the same effect on Brella. Her stiff rage abated, her breathing growing deep.

Purpose had done something like this with Scratch every so often, brushing the ropes out of her hair. Being touched by Purpose was a dangerous thing, and there was shame in the wanting of it. Most of her touches were slaps, but they came with a certain satisfaction. When Purpose raged, Scratch was the center of her mother’s world, if only for that brief moment.