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“Where’s the creepy face?” Ianthe looked up from the floor of her cell, her expression way too haughty for someone literally chained to the wall.
Harrow made an aborted motion to touch her own cheek, then thought better of it, shoving her clammy hand into the pocket of her robes instead.
“Wasn’t a priority.” That much was true. With all the Sixth refugees and BoE terrorists and horrifying tongue-eyed monsters running around, applying her usual skull make-up seemed performative. Dishonest, when she could hardly do more than make a skeleton twitch its fingers before collapsing from exhaustion. And recently, the paint made her skin feel a whole new kind of itchy and disgusting, but the prisoner didn’t need to know all that. The chain rattled with a tremor shaking Ianthe’s whole body - residual effects from the Herald bullet. Would take up to a week to wear off, Pyrrha said. “Why are you still here?”
There was no sign of damage to Ianthe’s wrist or the shackles, no evidence at all of her trying to escape, though it would have been ridiculously easy, just break a few fingers and mend them again. The Marshall had only cuffed her meat arm - more ritual than common sense, like most things on the Ninth. Ianthe shrugged, shoulders still trembling.
“Where would you suggest I go, Harry?” she spat, though Harrow failed to feel the expected pang of disgust at the nickname. “Back to Teacher, back to being God’s loyal little fist and gesture after Daddy’s girl went and stabbed me in the back? Please,” her scoff wasn’t enough to cover the yawning pit of sadness beneath it. “Or better yet, to the Third? To spend my life organizing memorial parades for the poor, beautiful sister I couldn’t manage to keep alive?”
“You know she isn’t…” Harrow attempted weakly. Corona had refused to visit the cells for the past three days. Ianthe flashed her a cold, ugly grin.
“Better dead than a traitor. Though she’d rather actually die than let anyone back home see the state of her split ends. So, you’re stuck with me, I’m afraid. I’ll be here, patiently awaiting the punishment for my alleged attempt on the life of the beloved Reverend Daughter.” Ianthe looked at her nails, blew on them like she’d just applied a fresh coat of paint, then slowly lifted her freckled gaze toward Harrowhark. “What do you really want, Harry?”
Harrow extracted her hand from the warmth of her pocket. She’d never been cold on the Ninth before. Now she was always so horribly, achingly cold. Her arm felt foreign, too long and gangly when she lifted it - fingers to scalp, threading through scraggly black strands no longer than her pinky.
“Back on the Mithraeum,” she started, “You did something to my hair, didn’t you?” Her eyes remained carefully locked on Ianthe’s face to catch any lie in the making - she’d found she was startlingly good at that now, but she needn’t even have bothered.
“Heh,” Ianthe grinned again, less callous this time, almost fond - by Ianthe standards. “I might have.”
Harrow let her hand drop along with her gaze, leaving her head in disarray. “Would you, um…”
“Oh spit it out, Harry, it’s far too late to play coy with me.” Ianthe was clearly amused now, despite the intermittent shivers and the dirt floor and the chains. Harrow straightened up to a full five-foot-two and found herself wishing for the protection of her itchy ceremonial paint all of a sudden.
“Do it again, Tridentarius.”
That made Ianthe’s mouth fall open for a moment before she collected herself again.
“That’s still Saint of Awe to you. But it’s hot when you’re bossy, so I’ll let it slide.”
Harrow hadn’t been naive enough to think she’d get a favor out of Ianthe without having to endure a few lewd remarks in return. She sighed heavily anyway, just to make a point. “Just get it over with. Good behavior might buy you extra lunch rations.”
“Ooh, I can be a good girl for Mommy, promise!” Ianthe fluttered her pallid lashes in a way that made Harrow feel dizzy and a little bit sick. She felt her brows and nose scrunch up against her will, her head tilting to the side.
“You’re older than me…”
“Yeah,” Ianthe countered drily. “And Ninth food is fucking depressing, as you damn well know. But I thought we were doing a thing here.” Her eyes lingered on Harrow - unreadable except for the parts that were glaringly obvious. Calculating. Lonely. Scared. She patted the dirt in front of her with a bony palm. “You’ll have to come closer. Can’t exactly whisper to your hair follicles when you’re all the way over there.”
Harrow knew it was a lie but if Ianthe had wanted to harm her today, she’d have done it already. So she forced her knees and ankles into obedience, folding herself into a cross-legged sitting position on the packed earth, just a skeletal arm’s length away from her prisoner. It made her joints feel wrong, slack and sticky like the metal elevator chain when it hadn’t been oiled in a decade. Paul had said it would take a while to settle back in, for the soul to reacquaint itself with the flesh. She hadn’t dared to ask how Cam’s body was adjusting to their new situation - it had felt invasive, somehow. And Paul had seemed eager to leave.
“So you want me to reverse it? Make you bald as an egg so the Ninth can save on razor blades in these trying times?” Ianthe smirked, reaching out with gilded fingerbones. Harrow jerked her head back.
“No!” It came out sharp and sudden, the thought of losing what little she had like an icy punch to the ribs. “No,” she managed more calmly, more befitting of her position, she hoped. “Make it longer. At least this long.” Harrow motioned to a spot on her chest, just below where her collarbone was protruding even through the thick wool fabric. Because Ianthe wasn’t wrong, Ninth food really was a dreary affair and eating it now felt like the world’s most tedious chore.
“Oh. Alright,” said the chained Lyctor, her tone far less scornful than Harrow had feared. Ianthe reached out again and this time Harrow leaned in, head bowed forward, until she felt five hard fingertips at the top of her skull. They were warm, warmer than anything else down here in the dungeons, warmer than Harrow’s eternally goosepimpled skin. It spread downwards, a calming, tingly sensation, over her head and face and shoulders, like sitting in a bath and having someone pour heated water over her hair. Like striped windows and the smell of coffee and the click-whirr of a recording tape… Harrow closed her eyes just in time to hide the gathering wetness.
“There,” Ianthe said, too quickly, and gone was the touch and the only remaining warmth was the shameful heat rising in Harrow’s cheeks. They’re not really your memories, Paul had said. Someone walked a long way in your shoes, so expect to find some footprints. Harrow blinked away the tears and reached up to find her hair almost covering the entire flat expanse of her chest. It was a deep, shining black, slightly wavy and soft between her curious fingers. It felt right. But something was still missing.
“One final task for the Saint of Awe,” Harrow said with only a hint of mockery - because now that she was looking at Ianthe again, that title felt apt for the very first time. The Lyctor seemed positively transfixed by her own creation, eyes soft and gleaming, mouth almost quirked into a smile - almost. She replaced the expression with a more familiar, cunning one just half a breath too late.
“What’s in it for me, darling? And don’t try to pawn off even more of your vile mushy turnips. Nice try, but eww.”
Harrow had to bite back a little smile of her own, feeling too exposed for comfort. She patted her cloak pocket, making it crinkle. “Pyrrha has a whole stash of chocolate protein bars.” At that, Ianthe’s eyes lit up again - this time with genuine hunger of more than one kind.
“See, that’s how you seduce a lady. How may I be of further assistance, Reverend Daughter? Don’t wanna die a virginal nunlet after all?”
Harrow was sorely tempted to echo the eww but managed a mildly disgusted eye roll instead. Still, involuntarily, she licked her lips where they remained raw and tasted of iron ever since Alecto’s teeth had breached her skin. That was too big to think about. Too much to want. But she could want something different, maybe, something simple and comforting for her body, if not her soul… Gideon - no, Kiriona - still looked terrified to breathe in her vicinity, big smiles and swaggering steps frozen solid when they passed in the corridors, as though at any given second Harrow might crumble into a heap of bone dust and be forever lost to the wind. Ianthe, it seemed, had no such qualms. The coinciding flash of heat in Harrow’s belly was an issue to be dealt with at a more convenient time. Ideally, in a place that wasn’t currently under malevolent spirit attack and had clean floors, maybe even an actual bed… She shook herself out of that thought with some difficulty.
“Do you know how to braid?” Harrow finally asked, slightly flushed.
Ianthe made a noise, high and loud enough to be alarming before Harrow recognized it for what it was. Laughter. First rough, brittle like icicles shattering on the chappel floor, then actual, uninhibited cackling.
“Are you seriously asking me, twin sister of Coronabeth “Do My Hair For The Party” Tridentarius, if I know how to fucking braid??” Ianthe’s breath became labored with tremors and giggling. When Harrow remained silent in her embarrassment, she was eventually polite enough to go on. “Scoot your bony ass over here, back toward me. Pigtails?”
“Please.” Harrow navigated her uncooperative limbs over the packed dirt, facing the cell door now. When Ianthe started separating the hair on her right into three smaller sections, the familiarity of the feeling made it momentarily hard to breathe. It was terribly undignified. She had to talk, if only to keep herself from crying again.
“Can I ask you something… something personal?” Asking seemed easier, now that Ianthe couldn’t see her face.
“Wow, Harry, who knew it only took your body getting possessed by one little planetary soul to finally turn you into a real girl? Do you wanna have a proper sleepover? Tea party? I can try and clear my busy schedule-”
“Shut up,” Harrow whined, her voice oddly petulant and childish to her own ears. “It’s just… Do you ever feel him in there? Babs? Or… bits of him?”
“If I did, I’d make a really dirty joke right now,” said Ianthe, now starting on the second braid. She was lying. “I do get a mad craving for a cigarette now and then. I get… dreams.” She trailed off, sounding wistful, then cleared her throat. “Paul would give you a whole lecture about permeable souls or some other academic nonsense. If you ask me, it’s just plain old nostalgia. Spend enough time with someone, it’s hard not to pick up a habit or two.” Harrow felt her shrug, the motion pulling pleasantly at her hair.
“Hmm,” said Harrow, for lack of a more eloquent response. A hand - her own hand, most likely - began to weave the finished plait along its fingers. Over, under, over, under, the texture bumpy and soft against her skin. Ianthe’s answer had only brought up more questions, now all squirming around inside her stomach, making her feel ill. Can you miss a person you’ve never met, who never even properly existed? Can you long for something unfamiliar so badly it hurts - food you’ve never tasted, clothes you’ve never worn? Why do Pyrrha’s bulky arms look like safety, why do Paul’s delicate hands feel like sleep, and why are they both refusing to meet her eyes?
“You’ll figure it out, Harry, you’re a clever little freak.” Ianthe’s words were too sickly-sweet to be genuine, too much honey trying and failing to coat her own bitter despair. But Harrow couldn’t even blame her for any of it. They were both using each other, after all - for fleeting touches and company and half a protein bar, probably melting and squished from where Pyrrha had sat on it. It didn’t matter to Harrow, not as long as fingers sheathed in skin and gold were working on her hair, tugging a bit too hard every now and again - too intentional to be a spasm, too gentle for Ianthe’s particular brand of cruelty. Harrow closed her eyes, allowed this old-new-different body to grasp and clutch at those sparks of pain, and knew with bone-deep certainty she wasn’t the only girl in this cell feeling helplessly adrift.