Archive of Our Own

May 20th, 202X
1:15 PM
Los Angeles International Airport

Franziska von Karma, being perfect, does not experience a wave of jet lag the instant she touches down in Los Angeles. In fact, she’s more energized than she’s felt in some time. Rather, shaken from experiences on the flight, she (after some throwing of elbows and rolling of suitcases on unsuspecting passersby's feet) makes a beeline for the waiting area and plants herself there to scrounge through her suitcases like a madwoman.

Her first priority is her phone. She’d abandoned it in her bags because, before the flight, she hadn’t had plans to speak to anyone nor read anything—or so she’d thought until she’d been, to her abject horror, captured by an in-flight magazine instead. Now, she needs to have a conversation like she needs air. (In other words: If she so desired, she could find a way to live without it by von Karma determination if nothing else.)

The first thing she finds, however, is her whip. It’s also a priority, and Franziska grabs it like second nature, to have something to fidget with if nothing else. She’s well-used to the rigmarole of having to threaten airport officials to even bury it in her suitcase; there’s no chance of her being able to keep it on her person. Franziska lowers it to her side as she digs further into her belongings.

She uncovers her phone beneath a folded jacket that’s too familiar a shade of blue for her to comfortably wear. Franziska pauses to zip her suitcases up again, then goes to the second number on speed-dial (there out of desperation rather than genuine expectation, she’ll say if asked. No one has asked, however, because no one knows). She holds the phone to her ear and waits as it rings.

And rings.

…And rings.

Franziska’s lips curl back. “Pick up, you absolute—” She looks up to see several people staring. Her glare hardens, and she snaps her whip on the ground in warning, producing a crack that rings out against the hard flooring and bounces off the walls.

At once, the attention dissipates. Franziska can’t help a smirk even as she inwardly shakes her head at the spines of these people—or rather, lack thereof. She hadn’t even devolved into loud and very colorful German swearing yet—and, to her disappointment, she doesn’t get a chance to, because just then, there’s a click.

“Franziska,” says Miles Edgeworth, tinny and gratingly bland through the phone. There’s something off about his voice—something Franziska can’t place, but something that makes her brow crinkle. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Franziska scoffs. She’ll work out the matter of Miles’ distraction later. It’s late where he is, so it’s probable he was only sleeping—though she’s known him to have a similar sleep schedule to her own perfect one, staying up late but waking early, it seems to have been adjusted in the past couple of years. “What, I cannot call my little brother now? I cannot want to talk simply because?”

“You don’t call anyone ‘simply because,’ least of all me.”

“Fine. Something is bothering me.” Franziska folds her arms, squeezing her sleeve with the kind of ferocity that would tear them were they not so expensively made. “I was reading a magazine on the plane.”

A brief pause. “What kind of magazine?” says Miles, the distaste in his voice the same as has been lingering in Franziska’s mind for several hours.

“It isn’t whatever you’re thinking,” says Franziska sharply. “I would die of bringing shame to the von Karma name if I ever picked something like that up, let alone read it or admitted doing so to you. No, I was perusing a—beauty magazine.” A women’s beauty magazine that had a focus on more androgynous fashion styles and haircuts, to be more specific.

Another pause. “A beauty magazine.”

“Yes,” says Franziska. “Keep up, will you? I—” She stops, words dying in her throat with a small click that she hopes doesn’t carry over the line. What had she said about dying of shame to the von Karma name?

“Franziska?” There’s faint concern in Miles’ voice.

“I’m thinking about cutting my hair,” blurts Franziska, tentative in a way that doesn’t suit her brash tendencies. A von Karma, she tells herself with gritted teeth, is always perfect; always speaks clearly and proudly, with their heads held high and their shoulders straight. Never uses hedging phrases like I’m thinking about. But these choice few careful words make her feel like she’s exhaling for the first time in years, letting all the air trapped in her lungs out all at once. Her heartbeat replaces the feeling of constricted breath.

“All right,” says Miles, an underscore of confusion to it. Like he doesn’t understand her hesitance.

Franziska can’t strike him from another continent—nor, she has to admit, does she want to—so she’ll have to verbally whip some sense into him. “My hair now is the shortest it’s been in some time,” she says, toying with a split end. She’d gotten it cut the week after her father’s execution. For the funeral, she’d told herself, but of course there hadn’t been one. A perfect funeral, which would have been the only one he deserved, did not entail only two attendees—Manfred von Karma’s biological children, since any affection Miles had held for him had died in that courtroom. Franziska swallows and brings herself back to the present. “But it’s still too long. It itches, and it’s heavy, and—” Aware she’s sounding like a whiny child, she bites her lip and takes a moment to piece her composure back together.

A von Karma is always perfect, sounds at the back of her mind. For once, Franziska doesn’t take it at face value. She wonders why. It’s a fleeting wonder, one that is gone the moment she realizes how ragged her breathing has become and shamefully clamps her mouth shut in favor of breathing through her nose. Tremors run through her shoulders like a self-contained earthquake.

While she gathers her senses, biting her lip all the while, Miles is silent. He’s never been particularly patient, so it comes as something of a shock to hear (or rather not hear) him waiting without a word. She suspects he’s tapping his finger on his arm in frustrated anticipation, not wanting to force or rush her but wanting her to speak up already, dammit.

A small but pompous smile crosses Franziska’s face. She prolongs her own silence to make him stew that much longer. She’s abandoned the pretense of revenge by now, if only to resume it at some distant point in the future, but she can’t deny her selfish pettiness.

By the time she opens her mouth, she’s smirking, but any semblance of joy drops when she says, “Papa wanted me to have long hair.”

Miles exhales, sending a flurry of static into Franziska’s ear. “Von Karma is dead,” he says—not unkindly, but matter-of-fact, lacking any emotion aside from the weariness his words always carry some degree of. “Not that he had any real authority over your hair even when he wasn’t. It’s yours, Franziska—ergo, you should decide what to do with it.”

Franziska laughs, a harsh and dry sound that reminds her of a whip cracking. “Papa may be dead and buried, but he and his words are far from gone. You must know that better than anyone, Miles Edgeworth.” The except me goes unspoken.

“Maybe it’s time for them to go,” says Miles, still devoid of feeling.

“Maybe.” Franziska runs her thumb along the well-loved handle of her whip. Her frown only deepens, becoming more somber than the irritated scowl it had been before. “I’m sure you remember what Papa was like when I told him I was a girl. I know now that his inward feelings were likely not so generous and it may have mostly been my mother’s influence, but… he allowed me to live on without much of a fuss. The one thing he was strict about,” she says, “was that I have long hair. ‘Bah!’ he told me. ‘If you insist on acting like a girl, then you might as well play the part to its fullest,’” she echoes in German, both to accurately portray his words and attempt to throw Miles off for a beat. Given he’s almost better at German than she, she doubts it works, but it’s the thought that counts. “No child of his could be imperfect.” Where there might have once been pride in that statement, turning it into a gloat, there’s only bitterness.

An odd lull falls over the conversation. Franziska finds herself running out of things to say, panting for breath with what she’s already said, and Miles doesn’t reply. When neither speaks for a solid minute, Franziska lowers her phone enough that her cracking her whip on the ground will be loud enough to startle a yelp out of Miles.

She smirks at the sound. She’ll take her small victories where she can, especially with Scruffy on administrative leave and thus no one to torment in LA. Except perhaps that man, but Franziska had never caught where he works (worked, she reminds herself with a returning frown) and refuses to learn where he lives.

“Well, Miles Edgeworth? What are your thoughts on the matter?” she says instead of pursuing that line of thought.

“Are you really still that concerned about von Karma?” Though he sounds scathing, there’s a hint of understanding to it, but Franziska does not need or want his pity, least of all now.

“Responding to a question with a question. How foolish. You fool,” she tacks on for impact.

“I don’t have any thoughts on the matter,” Miles protests. “The… prosecution rests.” It’s one of the most blatant lies Franziska has ever heard him tell (and there have been many), and she’s about to call him on it when he adds, “It’s your decision, Franziska. Just don’t cut it yourself.”

Franziska tries to project her glare through the phone. When it doesn’t seem to carry, she glares at the wall instead. “You think I can’t handle a pair of scissors? I am a prodigy and perfect in every way, Miles Edgeworth, and that is in many more areas than law—”

Her rant, already halfway on its way to incoherence, is cut off by a scuffling sound and a quick, quiet, “Hold it—”

The static grows thicker. Franziska frowns, realizing that she can still make out distant and unintelligible voices—plural, she notices after a moment, and while she may not be able to make out any words thanks to the muffled state of the audio, she’d recognize the more distant voice anywhere. When the static returns to normal and a throat clears, she’s tempted to book a flight straight back to Germany to wring Miles Edgeworth’s neck with his own cravat.

“Sorry,” he says, still blank but with an embarrassed note to it. “What, ah, were you saying, Franziska?”

“I was done. I wasn’t aware that that man was visiting,” says Franziska with a sniff. She’s not lying; she can’t remember what she’d been planning on saying, having gotten most of what she was thinking about out off of her chest but still not anywhere near a consensus. “I’ll text before I call from now on. I was—” She winces, remembering her frenzied state of fewer than thirty minutes ago. “I was not in my right mind.” For a split second, she considers making a foolish joke out of a homophone of right before cringing at the very thought. “But now I am perfect once more, and now I am going to go and seek other opinions.”

A crackling sigh. While Miles’ lie had been painfully obvious, so had Franziska’s. “Oh, Franziska?”

“What?” she says, thumb hovering over the red button.

“Don’t go to Supercuts.”

Before Franziska can so much as open her mouth to retort, the line goes dead. The gall. Franziska fumes all the way to a taxi outside and her hotel, where she slips her phone back out of her pocket and texts a begrudging, Thank you. There’s no response, and she’s certain any right now would make her block the number, so she switches to her browser instead.

‘hair salons -supercuts,’ she types, and waits.

✂

May 20th, 202X
2:24 PM
Charmant Salon

Franziska is sitting in the first salon she found that accepted walk-ins, was within a ten-minute radius of her hotel, and got four-and-a-half or more stars on both Yelp and Google reviews (a von Karma never accepts anything less than perfection, so a von Karma always double-checks their sources) when the regret begins seeping in.

She’s already made an appointment with a “Cécile,” who’s “just finishing up with another client, she’ll be with you in around half an hour,” according to the receptionist. Thus, it’s late enough that all she can do is sit and stew to the sound of “Sweet Caroline.” She folds her arms and taps her foot against the tile. After a couple of moments, she realizes she’s tapping along to the beat and forces herself to sit still, which only makes her thoughts—which switch between self-flagellation and distaste for everyone else in the room at a remarkable pace—more pressing.

Next to Franziska, someone is chewing gum. She refuses to look over lest she be compelled to whip the offender into unconsciousness, which she thinks would get her in police custody rather than a salon chair. Maybe, then, she should look over. Maybe that would bring an end to this circus act.

She squeezes her whip. She watches the clock right above the door tick her life and patience away along with the minutes. She doesn’t even think about looking at the stack of magazines beside her, which no less than three people have taken gossip rags from since she sat. Franziska has had enough of magazines for a lifetime, and she’s only even skimmed one in her life.

If she pauses to think about it—which she’s of course doing because she has no other choice, does she—it’s not, in fact, all the magazine’s fault. No, this had started when she was a child and her father had sat her down, as he often did, and told her she must act and look a certain way if she wanted to be taken seriously and achieve perfection—

A familiar voice interrupts her thoughts: “Holy shit, Franziska von Karma?”

Franziska lifts her gaze and blinks. “Maya Fey,” she says, keeping the shock out of her blank voice but definitely not managing to do the same for her face.

Maya Fey grins at her. Her hair is damp and free from the complicated style Franziska had last seen it in. As she walks over, she tugs half of the back up with a stretchy purple hair tie, letting the rest stay loose. She’s wearing the foolish outfit she always does, dark purple and pale pink contrasting her sun-kissed skin. There’s no reason her smile should be as wide as it is—nor a reason why Franziska should be tempted to smile back, so she doesn’t, no matter how strong the inexplicable tingle in the corners of her lips is.

“It’s good to see you again!” Maya drops into the chair beside Franziska with nary an invitation. Franziska stares. “I thought you were back in Germany, though?”

“I was.” Franziska smooths her skirt out and straightens her back. “I wanted to spend more time studying your court system. Despite my—” she grits her teeth “—previous losses against Phoenix Wright, things here are intriguing. And I was planning to give Phoenix Wright something, but since he is currently gallivanting about elsewhere, I guess it will have to wait for the next visit.” Again. She’s had multiple opportunities to hand it over now and has ended up postponing her plans every single time.

“You can call Nick by just his first name, you know, or even Nick like I do,” says Maya with a snort. “Or his last name, if you want to be like Edgeworth.”

“I have absolutely no desire to do that.” Franziska pauses, then adds, “Maya Fey.”

“You can call me by my first name too.” Maya’s pout is far more effective than Franziska would care to admit, so she presses her mouth in a thin line and looks to the side rather than be faced with this dilemma. Maya huffs. “Fine, fine. What were you going to give Nick?”

“Evidence from the Engarde case. Yours, actually,” says Franziska. She starts to reach for the evidence in question to present it—but, she recalls, she’d left it in her suitcase back at the hotel, seeing no need to have it with her now that she knows Phoenix Wright isn’t in the city. She folds her legs with a faint scowl instead. “The way things are looking, he might get ahold of it sooner if I give it to my little brother.”

“Your little—?” Maya starts, and then something clicks. “Oh, that’s right, Nick’s in Europe now, isn’t he? He messaged me something about that, and I picked the lock to his apartment and neither he or Trucy was there, so I know he was telling the truth and wasn’t just trying to ghost me.”

Franziska rolls her eyes. “The foolish behavior of a foolishly foolish fool behaving foolishly.” She pauses with a frown. She doesn’t know who Trucy is, but she does know—“Should you be bragging about breaking into your former boss’ apartment?”

“Hey, Nick’s not just my former boss, he’s my best friend.” Maya puffs out her cheeks, then adds, “And he knows I can pick locks. And I have a spare key, anyway, ‘cause I babysit Trucy sometimes and Nick locks himself out a lot.”

None of this is making the situation any clearer. “Why do you know how to pick locks, actually?”

Maya raises her eyebrows like Franziska has said something particularly moronic. “To impress cute girls. Duh.”

Well, I am not impressed, but you seem to be with yourself, so it has worked at least in part, Franziska thinks, and she’s about to say as much before she freezes, mouth half-open.

Putting aside the fact that Maya had probably come out to her, she’d thought of Maya as cute.

It’s an objective fact, of course. She doubts anyone (save, perhaps, someone like her little brother) looking at Maya would be able to deny it. Her clothes and hair are odd yet endearing, carrying a unique charm. Her smile, the very one she’s giving Franziska now, seems innocent and as bright as that foolish badge defense attorneys like(d) to foolishly flash around, as do her eyes, wide and crinkled at the edges with the aforementioned smile.

Franziska’s eye twitches. But, she tells herself with a kind of firmness often reserved for other people, putting aside her physical attractiveness, Maya Fey is not someone Franziska should be thinking of as cute, even in passing. Franziska is not her brother; she will not be overcome by sunny smiles and sparkling eyes alone.

…But then again, Maya does have some valuable personality traits, so this doesn’t end at her looks. She’s outspoken, direct to the point of a bluntness similar to Franziska’s own at times. She’d gotten up in Franziska’s face when Franziska prided herself on her aloofness and intimidating exterior. Maya’s mental fortitude, too, is admirable—Franziska had seen her in the aftermath of that trial what seems like eons ago, involving the death of a woman revealed to be her mother, and while the puffy state of her eyes had been obvious, so had the smile and determination she kept through it all. And the ability of anyone to put up with Phoenix Wright as long as Maya has is something.

Franziska wants to know what else lies beneath the blithe exterior, the sometimes forced but always wide smile; what other commendable traits Maya Fey holds. She’d like to get to know her better. She’d like to—

No, Franziska thinks with dawning horror as her thoughts wander into distinctly embarrassing territory and her heartbeat breaks into a gallop. No no no. No, you cannot have feelings for this foolish girl.

She wants to scream.

She doesn’t; it would make her seem like as much of a fool as she knows herself to be at the moment. While all of Franziska’s current thoughts are revolving around that, it wouldn’t do to let it show. A von Karma is always perfect, even when they’re not.

She does, however, yelp when Maya waves a hand in front of her face. It’s not a good compromise, being as embarrassing a sound as an outright scream, but it doesn’t draw the attention of anyone in the salon except Maya, who giggles.

“Sorry, I didn’t know if you were really listening,” she says, dropping her hand. Franziska follows it down to her lap with glazed eyes. “You’re not weirded out that I’m gay, right?”

Franziska fixes her with a flat look. “We have been far from the best of friends, Maya Fey, but do you truly think I would think less of you for something like that?” She averts her gaze and picks at the seams of her skirt. “Especially given that I am as well?”

“Oh,” says Maya, low and inordinately pleased. “Huh, yeah, okay, good to know.” Before Franziska can pry about that means, Maya charges on: “What are you planning to do with your hair, by the way? Or nails, I guess. I got a trim and highlights, so—”

Franziska blinks, noticing what else had changed about Maya’s hair: The two loose strands in front have bright pink streaks now. Franziska isn’t sure how she missed this. One explanation presents itself almost immediately—you were distracted by everything else about her, the devil (or perhaps the angel; it’s hard to tell nowadays) on her shoulder croons.

Franziska purses her lips and bats the thought away. “I was planning on getting a much shorter cut.” She runs a quick hand through her hair, curling her fingers in. Will the texture be different when she cuts it?

When, not if, Franziska realizes, and her heart beats a little too fast again, for a different reason this time. It should be a foregone conclusion, given her current location, but still Franziska drops her hand back to her lap and curls it around her knee, digging her nails into the skin. She wants to reach for her whip but thinks that’d give the wrong impression.

Maya seems none the wiser, eyes lighting up. “That would look really nice on you!” she says, bright, and then falters. “I mean, your hair right now looks really nice too—I’m sure anything would look good on you.” She smiles and nods. “But you might look, hm, more mature with shorter hair? Or it could go the other way, since you already look, um, older than me. And act like it, too.”

“I believe you told me something to that effect once.”

“When—? Oh.” Maya rubs the side of her neck. “Yeah, sorry, but—” she puffs out her cheeks again “—you were being kind of shitty to me and Nick. And not justifiably, either! I mean, Nick was just as down in the dumps about Edgeworth dropping off the face of the Earth as you, he couldn’t even hear his name—”

“I was not ‘down in the dumps,’” snaps Franziska, hand snapping to her whip on instinct and squeezing the handle so hard her fingers hurt. “I was furious! The fool I had grown up with competing with professionally and for my father’s personal attention, whether good or bad, had not only been defeated but run away with his tail between his legs and a single note? Not a word to me, not even a note addressed to me or a more detailed note that did not mislead the world into thinking he was dead? I wanted to get revenge on that foolish lawyer that had made him resort to such means! I wanted to find him and make his note more literal! I wanted to—to—to—”

“—to see your brother again,” Maya interrupts, eyes watery. Franziska’s mouth twists, but she doesn’t protest. It’s true, after all, even if she hadn’t wanted to admit it herself. “I get it, trust me. None of that meant you had to take it out on us, y’know.”

Franziska’s mouth, dry all of a sudden, opens—and then shuts when she realizes, far too late, how loud her voice had gotten. Everyone in the room is looking at them now. White-hot embarrassment takes over the anger, which deflates in her chest like a lead balloon, and she shrinks further into herself. She releases the whip, flexes her aching fingers, and sighs.

“I’m sorry,” she brings herself to say. She winces at how forced it sounds. Not that it isn’t, since she hasn’t said the word “sorry” much in her life of her own accord, but it’s flat yet hoarse enough that it doesn’t come across as genuine when she means it to. Normally Franziska wouldn’t care, but—

It seems, against her own will, that she cares about Maya Fey’s opinion of her. You foolish fool, she thinks. You did this to yourself.

Maya doesn’t look up. “What are you sorry for?” she says, tone carefully neutral.

“For yelling at you in a crowded hair salon over apparently unresolved matters that are not your fault,” says Franziska. “And for, as you put it, being shitty over a year ago. Though I don’t think that’s a punishable nor quantifiable offense.”

A prolonged second of silence, long enough that Franziska’s heart skips a couple of beats. Then Maya snickers, covering her mouth with a palm. Franziska’s heart skips another beat for a different reason.

“I think you made up for being shitty by saving me twice,” says Maya, sitting up and giving Franziska the brightest smile yet. Franziska must frown, or something, because Maya adds, “Once in the Engarde case with the evidence right in the nick of time, and then when you tried to help get me out of the Inner Temple. I know I wasn’t actually there when you got in, but I appreciated the effort when I heard about it later. Thanks, by the way.”

“Ah… you’re welcome.” Franziska rubs the side of her neck, which has filled with warmth. She glances to the other side of the room, but there’s no indication of any Cécile waiting for her, and the rumble of other conversations has started back up. “I believe I’m getting my hair cut soon.”

“Oh, cool—wait, I wanted to ask something before we, uh, got distracted.” Maya bumps her knee against Franziska’s. “You didn’t drive here, did you?”

Franziska wrinkles her nose. “No,” she admits. “I don’t have a car or license, not even in Germany.”

“Hey, there’s something for you and Nick to bond about.”

“I don’t wish to bond with Phoenix Wright over anything.”

“Sure, sure, you say that now, but when you have to give a speech at the wedding…” Maya taps her forehead, making Franziska’s eyebrows furrow. “Anyway, I was thinking that maybe we could hang out after you get your hair cut? Like, go get lunch or something.”

“Oh,” says Franziska in a small voice. How unbecoming. She resolves to scold herself later and draws herself up to her full height to say, “I wouldn’t be opposed to that, Maya Fey.”

Maya’s face flickers with surprise for a half-second, but it’s quickly replaced with another beam as she leans closer. “Is that the closest you’ll get to actual approval?”

Franziska sniffs. “Perhaps you will find out at lunch.”

If Franziska had been entranced by Maya’s smile, she almost drops to a knee at the sound of her laugh, full and less giggle-like than her previous snickers but no less charming. How foolish all of this is, and yet Franziska feels herself smile, too, thin but real.

“So where do you wanna go?” says Maya, perching her elbows on her knees.

“I didn’t eat out much when I was last in Los Angeles,” says Franziska, wrinkling her nose at the thought of the sheer amount of fast food restaurants. Americans. “So I assume you’re more familiar with the local restaurants than me, especially ones—” she arches an eyebrow “—within your price range.” She’s willing to pay, of course, but she’s not going to reveal her hand so early.

“Hey! Well, okay, that’s fair, but you make me sound as bad as Nick.” Maya taps her chin in thought. “Hmm—well, we can strike out Trés Bien.”

“Where?”

“Oh, don’t worry about it. Pretty sure they went out of business ‘cause of Mr. Armstrong’s debt, anyway. Or just the terrible food.” Maya gags and waves a hand, only deepening Franziska’s confusion, but she’s back to smiling in seconds. “How do you feel about burgers? And/or noodles? And/or—”

“Stop saying that foolish word.”

“And/or,” says Maya, sticking out her tongue. “It’s technically two words. Anyway, I know a really great joint not far from here. Nick and I go all the time. They’ve got bottomless fries and drinks—pretty much bottomless everything, actually. It might be a little lower-class than you’re used to, but hey, you’re slumming it up by being in LA in the first place, right?”

Franziska is hit with the mental image of a baby bird, chirping at the top of its lungs as it perches beneath its mother with its mouth open for its regurgitated lunch. “I understand what it feels like to be Phoenix Wright now,” she says with utter disgust.

“All the more reason to go!”

Another glance at Maya’s excited face and Franziska knows she’s a goner. “I suppose it wouldn’t be terrible to people watch, if nothing else,” she acquiesces.

“Oh, yeah, it’s great for that.” Maya grins and leans back in her seat. With the greater distance between them, Franziska lets out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, but there’s a disappointed twinge in her stomach. “I can’t wait to introduce you to the underbelly of Californian cuisine, Franziska von Karma.”

“It’s impertinent to call people by their full names, Maya Fey.” Maya raises an eyebrow. Franziska narrows her eyes. “What is that look for?”

“Nothing,” says Maya innocently.

“Ms. von Karma?” comes from the reception desk, where an older woman with a broad smile and a name tag reading Cécile is standing beside the receptionist.

Franziska stands, giving Maya an apologetic look out of the corners of her eyes. Maya waves a hand. “Hey, go get your hair cut. I’ve got ways to entertain myself,” she says, giving the stack of magazines beside her a look that makes Franziska’s stomach churn. “I’ll be here when you’re done, and then we can go eat, ‘kay?”

It’s oddly reassuring to hear their plans laid out like that. Matter-of-fact and simple. Franziska exhales, gives Maya a small smile with the usual pompousness, and turns on her heel.

“That is me,” she tells Cécile. “You’ll be cutting my hair?”

Cécile leans against the counter and glances Franziska up and down, sizing her up. “I will,” she says after a moment, snapping her fingers.

The sound makes Franziska flinch. It’s not as commanding nor loud as her father’s favorite gesture, but the ghosts of the past will always linger, no matter how hard Franziska tries, and she finds herself frozen in place, trying with an uncharacteristic—not to mention humiliating—kind of desperation to get her breathing back under control.

After one look at Franziska’s expression, Cécile lowers her hand. “Sorry about that. It won’t happen again.” She sounds like she means it, but Franziska doesn’t get to do much more than gauge Cecilia’s expression and tone before she’s turning and moving away. “Right this way, Ms. von Karma.”

Franziska follows. She’s guided back to an area with a few sinks linked up against the wall, passing several people getting their nails done on the opposite side of the room and others getting their hair cut or colored on the way. Cécile wraps a dark cape around Franziska’s shoulders, clips it at the back of her neck, and sits her down in a chair up against a sink.

“How has your day been, Ms. von Karma?” she says as she eases Franziska’s head back into the sink.

Franziska’s hands twist together under the cape as water rushes under her head, blotting out most of the sounds around her. “Good,” she manages.

“Good, good,” says Cécile, starting to mix shampoo into Franziska’s hair.

Franziska’s frown deepens. As much as she’d like to shake off the hands in her hair and retaliate, she can’t deny that the combination of warm water and fingers against her scalp feels nice. She relaxes her shoulders and takes deep, slow breaths.

“You have beautiful hair,” Cécile comments. “Very thick, and such a lovely color—is it natural?”

“Yes. My brother has light hair as well, but it used to be dark brown—it grayed very prematurely.” No need to mention that they aren’t related by blood, so the respective colors of their hair mean relatively little; any chance Franziska can take to poke fun at Miles, she’ll take.

Cécile hums, then turns off the sink. Franziska is left blinking up at the bright overhead lights as the warmth leaves the back of her head. “Follow me, Ms. von Karma.”

Franziska hefts herself up from the seat and follows Cécile back across the salon. The chair has to be boosted up to get Franziska in full view of the mirror once she’s seated, but Cécile makes no mention of why—Franziska accepts it with a grim expression, meeting her deadpan eyes in the mirror.

“You wanted to get your hair cut, yes?” says Cécile. “Any styles in mind?”

The moment of truth. “Not anything specific, but—” Franziska extracts one hand from the cape, which is the most cumbersome thing she’s been made to wear in her life (yes, counting all the ridiculous outfits her father forced her into for a number of social events), and gestures toward her ears. “About this length.”

“Sure thing,” says Cécile, already reaching around for clips and combs and scissors. She slicks Franziska’s wet hair back over her scalp. “Your hairline is here, yes?”

“Yes,” is all Franziska gets out before her head is being unceremoniously nudged downward.

The next forty-odd minutes are a blur of Franziska sneaking glances at herself in the mirror with an awareness too strong for her to be quite comfortable with, being told to look every which way and having her head pushed those ways when her head tilts aren’t to Cécile’s liking, and listening to the snipping of various pairs of scissors over “Sweet Caroline” still somehow playing. The feeling of wet hair hitting her legs and back with every cut becomes a frequent sensation, as does the urge to itch her nose.

Later, Franziska will look back and realize she doesn’t know how much time had passed, nor what her thoughts had been aside from how long is this song. She comes to that realization, in fact, when she watches Cécile pull out a hair-dryer. Franziska pinches her eyes shut as heat washes across her face; once it’s gone and replaced with the salon’s heavy air conditioning, she re-opens them, blinking as Cécile spins the chair around so she’s directly facing the mirror.

Cécile is standing behind her with a smile. “Is this what you were looking for?”

Franziska sucks in a breath. She still has the choppy excuse for bangs, but the bob has been all but sheared away, hair flatter against her scalp and styled like a pixie cut. The first thing that strikes Franziska is how light it is. When Franziska frees a hand to run a hand through it, it feels the same as it ever has—a weight lifts from her chest at both the touch and sight, but something’s still not quite right.

“I—” Franziska starts, and then she stops, looking down. She steels herself and lifts her head again, chin tilted up. A von Karma never hesitates. “I want it shaved.”

Cécile raises her eyebrows. “All of it? Are you sure?”

Franziska lifts her begrudging gaze to the mirror again, meeting her narrowed eyes with contempt. She tilts her head. Her bangs shift to the side, falling over one of her eyebrows.

“It’s just hair.” Her flippancy takes even her by surprise. The words are lifted from a much harsher reassurance her father had given her the first time he’d made her cut her hair—it hadn’t even been long then, just deemed too long to have in polite society at the time.

Franziska lowers her hands to her laps and exhales. She’s not upset, nor particularly conflicted, but a smile won’t come to her face. As Cécile observes her without a word, Franziska’s gaze involuntarily lands on the entrance of the salon. Maya is flipping through, of all things, Cosmopolitan, but—perhaps feeling Franziska’s eyes boring into her—she lifts her head after a second and flashes an encouraging smile, brighter than even the sunlight streaming in through the window.

This time, Franziska lets herself catch the contagious grin. “I’m sure.”

Cécile smiles back. “I’ll get the clipper guards. How short do you want it?”

Franziska scrambles to remember the magazine pages she’d perused on the plane, intent as she had been on erasing them from her mind. There had been some shaved hairstyles there with captions, hadn’t there? Franziska straightens up after a moment. “A two all around.”

“A quarter of an inch?”

There hadn’t been any mention of actual measurements, had there. Not that Franziska is used to the American units to begin with. She hesitates before she says, “Yes.”

Cécile gives her a look in the mirror, but with a narrow of Franziska’s eyes, she’s off—Franziska, who’s used to solving standoffs like this with a warning flick of her whip, is impressed. Cécile returns with a razor.

Franziska takes a deep breath and shuts her eyes.

When she opens them again—though she must have blinked at one point during the process, she hadn’t processed much visual stimuli, more focused on the soothing buzz of the razor—she doesn’t, at first, recognize herself. The hair, yes; it’s almost completely gone, only soft gray-blue fuzz that Franziska at once wants to touch. It’s more so the energy her form projects that takes her by surprise.

Maya had been right, she realizes as her lips part without sound. Somehow, she both looks older and younger. She looks more mature, like a grown woman rather than a girl playing dress-up, but at the same time, a world of tension has been eased off her shoulders, making her look fresh and more like her age. The new haircut calls attention to the rest of her features: the curved shape of her head; the roundness of her jaw and how it softens the sharpness of her cheeks; the proportions of her eyes and nose; the delicate, almost elf-like points of her ears.

Franziska takes a shuddering breath. She’s smiling, far too giddy and genuine to display in front of a stranger, but her eyes aren’t watering, which she considers a small victory.

“It is perfect,” she says without Cécile even needing to ask. “As is befitting of a von Karma, of course. How much do I pay you?”

Cécile’s face breaks out into a grin as satisfied as Franziska’s. She dusts fallen scraps of hair off Franziska’s shoulders and unclips the cape from around her neck, but Franziska makes no move to stand, continuing to study her reflection.

“With that look on your face? I almost want to say it’s on the house.” Before Franziska can even balk at the thought, Cécile laughs. “But that isn’t any way to run a business or feed mouths, I’m afraid, so let’s see here—”

It’s only around fifty dollars, but Franziska tips almost three-quarters that amount. Cécile squeezes her hands with an affectionate look that quells the immediate surge of discomfort at the unexpected touch. She hops down from the chair and, brushing more hair off herself but still feeling loose strands along her back and neck that she can’t quite reach and will have to take care of in the hotel, makes her way back to the front.

It takes Maya a second to notice when Franziska steps in front of her, and then she gives an acknowledging hum as if to say just a second. Franziska clears her throat to get Maya to drag her now somewhat scornful gaze from the issue of People she’s moved onto. As she lifts her head, her face fills with color, eyes wide and mouth opening. She slides to her feet, forgotten magazine crumpling to the floor with a thud that makes Franziska wince.

“Have you had a stroke?” says Franziska. “Because we can’t go to lunch if you—”

She’s interrupted by Maya taking her hands between her own and leaning up toward her, eyes sparkling as she holds eye contact with a suddenly very warm Franziska. “Fran, you look amazing,” breathes Maya. “I wouldn’t have pegged you as a buzzcut person, to be honest, but holy fuck, it works. Oh my God.” She squeezes Franziska’s hands and beams. “But my opinion doesn’t really matter. Do you like it?”

Franziska will address that foolish nickname later, as well as the physical proximity she isn’t used to nor could have predicted liking as much as she does and the fact that Maya’s opinion does mean something, at least to her—a veritable laundry list of topics to bring up at lunch. But for now, she can only manage a gentle smile. She drops one of her hands from Maya’s to run a hand through the soft, dull hairs now covering her skull. The bristles tickle her skin—another sensation Franziska wouldn’t have anticipating liking. She’s never felt more weightless.

“I love it,” she says quietly, and Maya’s grin only widens. Franziska lowers her hand to her elbow, squeezing her sleeve as she tilts her head toward the doorway. “We have lunch to eat, I believe, Maya Fey.”

Maya doesn’t let go of her hand. Instead, Maya holds tight to her fingers like Franziska is about to splinter to pieces and be blown away by the breeze that flows in when another customer steps inside. Her hand is warm and smooth against Franziska’s as she lowers them to their sides. Franziska has vague memories of holding someone else’s hand as a young child—her older sister’s or Miles’, perhaps, before he turned twelve and averse to all physical contact. (Not that, Franziska thinks, she was much better. Or is.)

She’s sure no one could hold her hand as tenderly as Maya is now. Despite the tightness of the grip, there’s some give to it, and Franziska has no doubt that if she were to tug her hand away from Maya’s, Maya would relent without a moment’s hesitation.

But she doesn’t want to, Franziska realizes. She wants anything but to let go, and so she gives Maya’s hand a small squeeze.

Maya’s eyes glitter. “We do indeed, Franziska von Karma,” she agrees, and out they walk.

In this instant, Franziska von Karma is not perfect. Both physically and mentally, she’s far from the ideal self her father wanted her to be—far from the ideal self that she herself thought she wanted to be not long ago. She’s starting to realize that she’ll never be perfect, not in the traditional sense, no matter how much she clings to the label.

But she is Franziska von Karma. She’s going to lunch with a cute girl, and for the first time in some time, she can call herself truly happy.

And, Franziska decides as she steps out into the California sun with Maya’s hand still woven into her own, that will have to be enough.