Blood Will Tell

XXIII

It was approaching evening in Ildor. Edin's arm swayed a little as he carried a picnic basket. He and Arden had done a little shopping for their nighttime picnic, and like the sales assistant at the jewelry boutique and the maître d'hôtel at the restaurant, the people at the establishments they visited knew her by name.

"It seems like everybody knows you," Edin commented.

Arden shrugged. "Most of them know of me, but only a few of them know me."

"What's the difference?"

"The former may know my name, but only the latter knows who I really am."

Edin did not quite get her but decided to not make her elaborate further. He simply bopped his head from side to side, swaying to the rhythm of the song that was playing at the plaza they were passing by.

They arrived at the salon. Though the place appeared to be buzzing, the queue was not as lengthy as Arden expected. In no more than five minutes was she led to a station to begin her session. As for Edin, he waited for her at a bench near the entrance, flipping through whatever magazines were provided for patrons.

The hairdresser greeted Arden when she arrived at the station. "Good evening, Miss Mægenstern."

"Good evening."

Arden reclined into her seat. A cape was then placed around her neck.

"What hairstyle would you like today?" her hairdresser inquired. "I've seen some trends involving short and straight hair you might like."

"I just want a trim, please," Arden said. Her right hand rose a short height above her shoulders. "A few centimeters off the ends, and that's it."

"Gotcha. A little off the bangs as well?"

"No please. Don't touch those." Arden was not aware, but her tone firmed at the last sentence.

Her stylist nodded in understanding. Arden really ought to have her bangs cut, though; they covered most of the upper half of her face. Before the hairstylist snipped a strand of Arden's hair, she gathered parts of it in bunches and clipped them. She then began cutting. "Would you like a drink?"

"No thank you."

She snipped away. Chatter echoed off the walls of the salon as stylists gossiped with their patrons—and each other, occasionally. However, no gossip passed between Arden and her hairdresser. Not that Arden had no stories to share; she had more tales to tell than all others in the room combined. Unlike them, though, she was not eager in the slightest to divulge them. And the hairdresser knew that.

"Did you come here with anyone?" the stylist asked.

"I did. He's waiting for me near the front desk."

He. Arden Mægenstern came with a man? "Oh, nice"—she turned her head briefly—"what does he look like?"

"He has blond hair, blue eyes, and he's wearing a white shirt with a blue blazer."

"Ah." The hairdresser's eyes darted around in search of him, eventually landing on a man who fit Arden's description.

Her mouth nearly fell into an open frown.

Arden caught the stylist's expression in the mirror. "Is there something wrong?"

"Oh, no. Nothing," she denied, forcing a smile. The hairstylist continued her work, dividing her attention between her client and the man in blue. "Who's this man you came with, by the way?"

"Just a guardian I'm looking after."

"A guardian?"

"Yes. I don't mean to brag on his behalf, but he saved Beor from the shadow onslaught singlehandedly the other night."