“I told you I wasn’t my mother.” She reached for the warm, wooden hilt of her trusty kitchen knife. She’d grown fond of the thing. “You’re not going to do anything with it that’ll, I don’t know, curse me later, right?”

“I-I was going to make rope.”

“Fantastic.” She tugged her hair taut and held the knife at the nape of her neck. Her locks were tangled and matted from a few days without combing, but if Hatter wanted to make rope, there was no better condition for it. “Is this good enough?”

Brella let loose a stream of giggles. “Let me do it for you, Scratch. It would be my honor to help repay your mother’s debt.”

“Well.” Hatter smoothed down his jacket. “This is perfect. Ideal even.” He eked out a dimmed smile. “All settled.”

Of course it was hair. Purpose had loved her hair, lank and thin though it was. And she had brushed Scratch’s—brackish, brackish, brackish . . .

No. Scratch squeezed her eyes shut, listening to the swish and scrape of Brella sawing through her locks. It sounded oddly like an untuned fiddle. Dissonant, scratchy, and rhythmic—calming, in its way. “And now that we’ve done business . . .” She cursed the rasp in her voice. “You wouldn’t be able to tell me what my mother owed you for, would you?”

Hatter’s grin spread. “If you want the information, I could make you a deal.”

“No thanks.” With satisfaction, she watched his face fall. “I’m fine not knowing.”

“O-of course.”

“Here we are.” Brella held up a hank of Scratch’s hair, pale yellow and thick. “Is this what you were after?”

Hatter hugged himself, shrugging petulantly. “I suppose.”

Scratch shook her head around experimentally. “What do you think, Brella?” There was no response. “Brella?”

Scratch turned to face her and—oh. Brella stared. Eyes bright but unfocused, mouth slack, dazed. She looked with hungry abandon. Scratch burned under it. Her heart raced, leaping near painfully, as she watched Brella draw her pink tongue over those large, barely-dappled lips. Scratch felt hot, so hot, and still shivery, her body alive and lightning-struck.

“You look well,” Brella murmured. She reached out a hand to tousle the soft ends, a touch that burned from scalp to toes. “We’ll clean this up a bit tonight, hm?”

“Yes,” Scratch breathed. Her knees unlocked, and she clenched her thighs to keep herself from swaying.

Hatter cleared his throat. Scratch jumped at the sound.

“Are we through?” he demanded.

Scratch blinked at him, slowly rejoining the world she had just transcended. “Uh . . .”

“We are, Hatter. Come along, Scratch.” Brella clasped her hand once more, large and warm and sure, and pulled her down the wending path. Scratch could not see a foot ahead, but she didn’t feel fear. Hope is foolish, she reminded herself, and like a fool she followed.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Two