As the Crow Falls | ✔

Chapter Forty-Three

At last—at long last—Niccola could put feathers in her hair again. Tongue poked out in concentration, she twisted and tucked the front section of her Varnic braided crown into place while Phoebe grumbled beside her. They'd jostled for a spot in front of the bedroom's only mirror for hours now. Niccola "accidentally" clocked an elbow on her sister's head. Phoebe retaliated with a jab to the ribs, where a constellation of bruises would mark their sibling battles by the end of the day. Not that Niccola was about to move. Doing her hair and winding up her sister were two of her favorite activities.

Phoebe put her shoulder to Niccola's side and pushed. "Hey!" said Niccola as she was removed from mirror-view, unable to let go of her hair with either hand. She crouched to Phoebe's height and shoved back. Phoebe took the bait. They pressed against one another, harder and harder, until Niccola abruptly stepped back. Phoebe ate carpet. Before she could recover, Niccola had reclaimed her spot in front of the mirror.

"Enjoying yourself?" she said without turning around.

Isaiah was laughing silently—but not silently enough—from his spot on their bed. He'd already changed and seen to his hair, which took about as much maintenance as a royal meadow-lawn—which is to say, practically none at all.

"Immensely," he said.

Niccola huffed and returned to her hair. She'd been at this for two hours already and wasn't yet done, but by the sky, it was going to be worth it. No matter how fiercely her arms ached. Phoebe at least recognized the concentration required for the crown's final steps, and did not attack again as Niccola shut her eyes, navigating the finishing touches by touch alone. And then it was done. She dropped her hands and turned to the mirror again.

Feathers. Niccola nabbed the little wooden box from the vanity and cracked it open. Where Margaret had found high-quality crow feathers in such a crow-suspicious realm as Calis was a mystery only Verde was privy to. Niccola selected downy plumes one by one and tucked them into her braids. Angled just right, they accentuated the swoops and whorls of the crown, black on black, until it looked for all the world like a separate adornment perched atop her head. Only when the feather-box was empty did Niccola step back to admire her reflection again. Her newfound arm strength from three moons scrubbing pots and hauling firewood had come to something useful once again, and kept her hands steady for far longer than she'd managed before. The crown had turned out perfectly.

"How does it look?" she said to the room at large.

"You're missing something," said Phoebe.

Niccola shot her a quizzical look. In reply, Phoebe pulled out a small jar she herself had drawn from when styling her hair, besides another box of feathers. Niccola froze.

The Varnic royal crown had variants. Feathers were for special occasions, but they were not the only decorations that graced the stiff curls of the royal family over the generations. Wooden beads, dyed red as winterberries, denoted enthroned royalty. Niccola had always expected she would never wear them. But many things had changed in the last nine months.

She couldn't even protest this. She would soon hold not one but two thrones—one in Varna at Phoebe's side, and one in Calis at Isaiah's.

"It's already done," she said, tongue running away from her in a vain attempt to deflect the honor Phoebe wanted to bestow upon her.

Her sister wasn't having it. "Sit down. I'll add them."

Niccola sat weakly. Phoebe set about her hair, freeing the very tips of braids to thread beads onto them before tucking them into place again. Not a single feather was displaced. When Phoebe told Niccola to rise again, a different reflection greeted her. One she thought she'd never do more than imagine.