Hair from one's head is magic. It is a record of our ancestry, of a life lived, of wisdom gained. Sometimes, it refuses to be ignored. I had known such all my life, since I was born cursed. My curse denied me authority that others can take over their bodies. Something exists in me that refuses attempts to be tamed. It seemed I found another with such a plight.

  From the journal of Drago? Buh?scu

  They traveled deep into the house, navigating the byways and steep, treacherous staircases that were used by servants. Narrow doorways lined by light seeping through lit the corridors on the second and third floors until they came out of a cleverly concealed doorway painted into a mural.

  Nico walked swiftly, and although he didn’t glance around to see if anyone saw them, the haste with which he stirred the air with his passing was impressive. They breezed down the hall, Nico whispering, “This way, this way.”

  The spiraling stairway that led up the tower gave Dragos a sense of chills. It was not fear that Dragos felt, but rather tingles of awe and excitement. He hadn’t felt that way for so long that he almost recoiled from the sensation of wonder.

  He was in a tower—a storybook thing for brave deeds or wistful stargazing. His palm slid along the central support, a cylinder of granite from which each tread jutted to rest upon joints carved in the outer wall.

  Small windows allowed rays of light to shine in at every turn, unlike the servant’s passages between the walls. Dragos delighted in the cool stone and the sudden flash of sunshine at every other turn. As they ascended, a soft scent wafted in. Couldn’t have been from the gardens; they weren’t yet in bloom.

  They came to a door, upon which Nico gently rapped his knuckles. “Lady Ewa? May I come in?”

  A murmur came that sounded like assent. Nico gently opened the door and took the last step up and in. He turned to look into the curving stairwell. With a tremulous voice, he said apologetically, “I’ve brought some people who may be able to help… if you don’t mind.”

  Dragos climbed the last few treads to enter the room. His gaze cast about and halted on the girl by the window. She lay draped there, her head upon thick pillows at the windowsill. It was a scalloped opening, complete with actual glass as well as shutters. The glass had been painted with birds and flowers in translucent colors.

  Her purple dress surrounded her in a pool of fabrics, elaborate and rich beyond anything he’d seen. Ewa’s face was soft and round, but her hand splayed across the pillow, not in rest, but in a stretch of agony. Her lustrous dreadlocks hung heavy from a system of ropes suspending the load to reduce its weight on her head. The excess length of hair had been draped out the window; otherwise, they’d have been coiled in large piles like the massive ropes used to tie down great sailing barges.

  The pale pillow showed rusty stains where hair had pulled away from her scalp. From the weight. Dragos swallowed and, unsure of what else to do, stepped toward the immobile girl and dropped to a knee by her side.

  “My name is Dragos. What is your name?”

  She seemed steady and calm, despite her suffering. A soft breath fluttered, eyes closing as if to gather herself before she spoke.

  “Ewa,” she said, no louder than a breeze sighing in forest leaves.

  “What happened?” Dragos slipped a leg beneath him and sat on it, rolling into a comfortable position.

  He noticed the floral scent again. It was strong in the little circular room at the top of the tower. And yet, there were no flowers to be seen anywhere. He took a long breath; it smelled of sweet violet, like a soft woodland day.

  “When mother told me I must go to Dorvaeli to secure a place at court…” Her full lips thinned into a line for a moment. Dragos couldn’t tell if it was because she found the idea offensive or because her hair was causing her discomfort.

  “A—a man,” she hissed through her teeth, and Dragos recognized her expression for what it was. She went on to explain, “A man selling perfumed treatments for hair promised that it would grow. My hair has tight coils and is difficult to grow, so it looked even shorter than it was, and I always wan—aaahhh.”

  Her words trailed off. Tears slid from her eyes as she bared her teeth, cutting off a cry of pain. Dragos heard a low ripping sound and grimaced, holding his breath as her hair visibly twisted, growing in a fresh spurt that tore some of her hair right from her head.

  He remembered to breathe again when her expression relaxed. Her fingers had curled into claws around her pillow, and he put his hand over hers, a gesture meant to comfort.

  She only wanted long hair.

  Zgavra wisely kept its mouth shut, though no doubt it was coming up with some sly jab for later, when they were away from the house of Cel Tradat.

  Dirty, scarred, and sickly pale, his hand lay in stark contrast to her manicured nails and darker skin. He pulled away after that briefest touch, afraid to soil her with his road-grimy hand. He looked up at Nico, who recoiled at the hard stare.

  “You’ve tried cutting it,” Dragos said, assuming as much.

  “Yes,” Nico replied. “We tried everything, even shaving her head. It grew right back, faster and longer than before.”

  “The style—was that what you intended?”

  “It’s what I wanted,” Ewa moaned. Her chin quivered briefly, then she calmed and explained. “I wanted long dreadlocks, with gold beads, so I put the serum in and then worked my hair into the thickness I wanted… and now it won’t stop growing!”

  “Did anyone else touch it?” Dragos asked, concerned that someone else might be affected.

  “No. I did it by myself.” Ewa sighed, her eyes closing, fingers clenching on her pillow again.

  “Is there any of this treatment left? Did no one find the man again?”

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  “Enough questions!” Ewa hissed through her clenched teeth. “We know nothing useful, or it would have been dealt with.”

  Nico’s hands trembled. “No one could find him. The serum is gone, though we still have the bottle…”

  “Bring me that, then. Please,” Dragos added, narrowing his eyes at the man.

  “As if the swindler would stay to be caught,” Zgavra said from his spot on the chair.

  Nico flinched at the shapeshifter’s harsh but true words, his expression tightening. The stolnic scurried off, down the winding stairs, his footsteps clapping as he went, echoing on the stone.

  Was it a swindler? Or a trickster? Or, worst of all, someone who thought they made something miraculous?

  Dragos could blame vanity, but it was silly to do so. If it had been any other vendor, the girl would not have suffered. He’d never known such concepts as beauty until Mirel had brought them to a city. The vast differences between simple mountain life and city life he’d explained away with that simple word: vanity.

  Was it merely an alchemical accident? Some fools should not play in the veiled realms, and yet, hadn’t Dragos himself served them the means, in some ways?

  He’d sold the lifeblood of the world a few times to survive winters. Even if this girl’s pain wasn’t directly caused by his starlace, he felt complicit.

  He closed his eyes, and when he opened them, he looked again at Ewa. The brilliant glitter of spirits floated around her like dazzling pollen; the tiniest of spirits spun between her locks, cursing her with their presence. The scent must have been from the treatment.

  “When did you apply the treatment?” he asked, glancing down at her.

  “A fortnight ago,” she whispered, relaxing from the last growth spurt she’d suffered.

  Half-moon.

  He breathed deep the scent that pervaded the room. “Did the man say what was in it?”

  “Olive oil, sweet violet, and a little secret ingredient that was sure to work,” she said, with a hint of irony. The regret in her gaze stirred his secret guilt into a storm in his chest. It had been because of him, or someone with the same knowledge, that she suffered.

  His head bowed, pale strands fell into his eyes, having slunk free from their binding. “I’m very sorry this happened to you.”

  “It’s not your fault,” Ewa said. So sweetly, so naively.

  When he could look at her, she smiled at him, warm as sunshine. He hated himself all the more, then. If there was a way to help her, he’d find it.

  “You’re not…” She hesitated to say normal. The most polite way to recognize someone like him. Moroi viu, of scourged soul and veil-touched life, doomed to be at best mistrusted. The same word was applied to ghosts and vampires.

  “I was born this way. But I caused an affliction similar to yours once. I wanted to be rid of my white hair, so I made a serum. Not like yours. I wanted it to take my hair.”

  Ewa’s gaze shifted from his uncanny eyes to his hair. She likely imagined him bald because she frowned, and a sadness touched her features. And yet there she was, rendered immobile by her own troubles. A curse born, a curse made.

  “The results of foolishness have affected us both, I suppose. I’m lucky you happened along,” Ewa said, reaching out to pat his arm.

  Dragos flinched. His sleeve was filthy. He hadn’t washed it in a week, having been on the long walk to Stanca? since he heard the rumor of witches. He smelled as ripe as she was pleasantly fragrant. He shot a glance at Zgavra, who’d taken a seat on a wingback chair with cushions. He’d found a book and was flipping through the pages. Unbelievable.

  Since meeting Ewa, Dragos knew that the rumors were true. In a way.

  The door to the tower below banged open, and the sound of Nico’s returning footsteps echoed up the stairs. Dragos liked the smart slap sound made by the man’s very fine shoes. Or perhaps it was because he would bring a clue to help Ewa that he found a hint of pleasure at the sound. Nico arrived huffing and puffing, a flask in his hand.

  He held it out, staggering over to where Dragos sat beside Ewa. The plain vessel sat in the palm of his hand, barely more than a perfume container in size, with a little corked spout. The thick brown glaze was simple, giving none of the finer airs that Ewa might have been used to. Dragos turned it over in his hands and pulled the little stopper to sniff the contents. It smelled just the same as Ewa did.

  He sloshed it and discovered there may yet be a few drops left. “Nico, I need a plain dish, please. I need to see the substance.”

  The flustered man turned in a circle to spy a fine china saucer and teacup resting on a delicately carved table. He scurried over and left the cup, examining the saucer before offering it to Dragos.

  Dragos set it beside him on the floor and tilted the flask. He waited patiently for the remains to slide to the spout, trembling at its edge in a shining bubble of liquid. It hung there a moment before dropping to the plate. He waited for another drop to dangle and fall. A third lingered but finally fell. Dragos set the flask aside and lifted the plate, careful to keep his fingertips away from the tiny puddle in the center of the saucer.

  The murky oil appeared to contain the expected contents. Sweet violet, olive oil, and something special. The faint glow of starlace ink. The difficult part would be concocting the perfect balance—and obtaining yellow hyacinth.

  He nodded. “I might be able to craft the remedy, but it will be difficult. I don’t know the exact ratio of the original serum. We’ll have to experiment.”

  Nico gasped, shaking his head at once.

  “Do it,” Ewa said, her gaze flicking between the stolnic and the man seated beside her. Her lips firmed, and she stated, “I’d rather do something than nothing. Even if it means I go bald. That would be preferable to this.”

  Her soft breath bespoke her despair. She lay immobilized. It couldn’t get much worse, to her.

  Dragos thought it could, if he botched it. Too much nightweb essence could craft a new curse. Not enough would yield no results. Over-experimenting would yield a horror.

  “Are you sure? If I fail, you would surely suffer more than you are now.”

  Ewa looked up at him, her eyes clear from pain, for the moment. A terrified resolve settled in her gaze. Still as a pond on a calm day, she lay upon cushions bloodied from the curse she suffered.

  “Then don’t make a mistake,” she responded, her nobility showing in the command.

  Dragos offered a small smile and nodded. He pushed up to a stand and faced Nico, flicking a brief glance at Zgavra, who sat with the book in his lap, watching it all. To Nico, he said, “I need your strongest purified alcohol and yellow hyacinth.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Nico replied, his gaze slipping to the lady beside the window. “Miss, your family will be back soon. What shall I tell them?”

  Ewa’s eyes closed. She sighed and murmured, “What will they do when they hear… You’ll have to tell them a doctor is here.”

  When her eyes opened, they flicked to Dragos. “You are a doctor.”

  “I’m no—”

  “You are,” she insisted.

  Dragos stayed silent. These webs could get tangled quickly. What mad doctor would ever dare apprentice a moroi viu? And yet, he’d carried on the profession of one not long ago—and would not think of it more.

  A doctor he would play, yet again, in hopes that things wouldn’t turn disastrous.

  Help a grubby free-content writer take some pride with some recognition.

  Moroi viu (mo-roi vee-oo)[rolled r]: A living person lacking a soul. Someone strange, atypical.