“That was fast,” Arthur muttered, because there were several other men waiting who’d arrived before him. “Shave and a haircut?” he tried, in English, feeling sheepish as he always did when visiting another country and hoping its residents happened to speak his language.

But the barber nodded. “Yes, sir.”

It was too quick and clipped a sentence for Arthur to be sure of his accent, but he didn’t sound French. So fine, Arthur was going to console himself that they were both foreigners.

The barber took Arthur to the back. As the door shut behind him, the city noises were muffled, replaced by the familiar sounds of running sinks and the snipping of metal scissors. At the end of the short hall were five large leather barber chairs and four of them were full, men with their eyes closed, their barbers busy as hair was trimmed and faces shaved.

The barber gestured to the final chair. “Sit.”

Arthur did, the leather cool even through his suit. The barber draped a white apron over his clothes and carefully tipped the chair back. Arthur glanced up at the carved ceiling and large hanging lights, and settled more comfortably into the chair and familiar routine.

Then, without warning, Rory’s magic flared to life, lightning bolts dancing on his skin with such suddenness he was surprised he wasn’t audibly sizzling.

Arthur stifled his gasp.

The barber’s pale face and blue eyes filled Arthur’s vision. “Shave first?” he asked politely.

Rory’s magic burst through his aura again, like a storm unleashing a downpour of rain and then moving on. “Mmm,” Arthur said noncommittally, his pulse too fast.

Perhaps Rory’s nervous about the stakes tonight, he told himself. Or perhaps you’ve just had too much coffee. Calm down.

The barber put a hot towel over his beard, hot enough to soften even Arthur’s thick stubble. He could hear the barber stropping the straight blade behind him, metal on leather. Familiar.

Arthur closed his eyes and took a quiet breath, trying to focus on all the familiar noises: running water, scissors, an occasional murmur in French from the other barbers or the customers in their chairs.

Calm down, he ordered himself again.

And then he caught his breath as Rory’s magic sparked back to life. Arthur had to grit his teeth as the barber leaned over him to lift the towel off his face.

A moment later, boar’s hair bristles brushed against his jaw, cedar and peppery citrus filling his nose as lather built. When Arthur’s stubble was covered with foam, the barber gently tilted his head back and slid the razor from cheekbone to jaw with surgical precision, not dragging or catching on his thick hair at all.