Pargeter and Sons Flat Glass Factory, Old Rose Harbor
“Not a novel,” Chrysanthe repeated. She swept up the last of the cigarette ash into the dustpan, scooping it up to take to the bin. Her legs protested; her arms protested; her back protested. She was not even entirely sure whether she had muscles there, although she supposed she must have.
Her mind felt oddly blank. She wasn’t sure she could have summoned up another novel, even if he had requested one. The effort had been unexpectedly draining, not nearly as soothing and pleasant as it was to read a book. Her throat still hurt, Chrsyanthe thought irritably, and she had very little desire to keep performing for him like some sort of trained miraan.
She glanced up at Ewing, on the ladder, as grimy and greasy as she was, balancing himself and the tools at once as he reattached the last of the rollers. There was not even the sound of the morning shift entering, yet. Soon, Chrysanthe knew, they would begin to heat the furnace to prepare the pit; soon, glass would flow down the canal into it, molten hot; soon, the rollers would begin to turn, and thin sheets of it would be drawn up from the pit, cooling as they stretched upwards. Today, for the first time, her contraption would deliver sulfur dioxide to the surface of the glass as it cooled.
She owed Ewing her gratitude, Chrsyanthe knew, whatever she might think of him.
“Let’s see,” Chrsyanthe said. She didn’t think she had been silent for more than a few breaths; it was hard to keep track. “I want to cut my hair,” she said, after a moment; she couldn’t have said why. She didn’t think Ewing would care in the least; it was only noise he wanted, wasn’t it? She had never said it aloud before.
“I’ve grown it since I was eight years old,” Chrsyanthe leaned against the table, watching him on the ladder. “Two braids - all through Brunnhold, all since.” She glanced down at them; she took the end of one in a filthy hand. “It’s heavy,” Chrysanthe said with a sigh. ”I’ve a headache even now from the pulling weight of it.”
“I’d like to cut it short,” Chrysanthe said quietly. “Shoulder lengths or less - short enough that I should only have to run a brush through it a few times, that I can pull it back in a tail and be done. I’ve had it so long; I feel as if it would be to cut away a part of myself, but I - perhaps it is a part which I don’t need. Perhaps I only want to prove to myself I’m more than just my hair.”
Chrsyanthe let go of the hair; the braid swished down, softly, through the air. She felt as if in a dream; she almost wondered if she had imagined the words. “Shall I go on about haircuts? Or have I cured your desire for conversation?”