“Better hope Zara doesn’t take this as her opportunity to run,” I muttered, but obediently took the chair. When they began their work, my gaze slid back toward Aaru’s door, and unwanted thoughts cluttered my mind:

Was he still in there?

Why had he freed Altan?

Did he know I knew?

Could we trust him?

Could I trust him?

Did he still love me?

CHAPTER SEVEN

AS HOPEBEARER, GOING TO BALLS AND OTHER FORMAL events, I’d often worn my hair long and loose, because Mother said it made me look younger—more innocent. Of course, Krasimir had braided my hair plenty of times over the years, but that had been for the everyday, meant to be put up or down, depending on weather or mood. The braids had often felt tight the first day, but they’d been simple to care for. Easy, even when they’d been time-consuming.

This—what Ilina and Chenda were doing—was something else entirely. More elaborate. More beautiful. More everything.

The sun pulled high above the city while Chenda and Ilina worked, discussing laws surrounding dragon sanctuaries, regulations Ilina thought prevented proper care for larger dragons, and what could be done about the dwindling population of every species.

When I was finally allowed to see their work, I gasped. My friends had given me a thousand tiny braids, weaving them into intricate patterns through and around one another, like the perfect decorative knot. I resisted the urge to touch it, to feel the texture of braids over and under, to count the true number.

“Do you like it?” Ilina squeezed her hands together.

I loved it. It felt like armor.

“Yes,” I breathed. “Yes, it’s amazing.”

Ilina practically glowed with the praise.

Chenda smiled. “This is an older Bophan style. Not two years ago old,” she clarified, “but old enough that it now signals class and elegance. Before I was sent to the Pit, some of the younger girls were starting to wear their hair like this again. They think they invented it.”

I twisted to inspect their masterpiece from another angle. “It reminds me of the tattoos.”

“Good. It’s supposed to.”

It wasn’t long before Zara returned, a small paper packet clasped between her fingers. “You don’t look awful.”

I opened my mouth to sting her back, but then I caught it: a small, hesitant smile hiding at the corner of her lips. I let my bitterness melt away. “Thank you. Ilina and Chenda deserve all the credit, though.”

Zara’s smile widened as she turned to the others. “You’re doing a good job, considering what you have to work with.”

Ilina threw a comb at her, which Zara dodged.

As the afternoon wore on, my fingernails were trimmed and filed and buffed, and then my face was brushed and powdered and shaded. As the cosmetics went on, a new Mira emerged.

Mother had always told Krasimir to make me look soft and sweet, like a delicate lala flower. But after two months living in the Pit and running from isle to isle, my face was no longer soft. And my friends didn’t try to pretend.