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Jinx sat cross-legged on Silco’s desk, scribbling furiously on a piece of paper. It was the fifth piece of paper she’d gone through in an hour. The other four had been crumpled into balls and discarded on the office floor.
She just couldn’t get his features right.
The subject of her portraiture was reading a report, a cigar held absently in his left hand. Lazy curls of smoke trailed from the glowing tip, dissipating before they reached the ceiling. Jinx used to think smoke was gross and stinky, but she minded it less now that it reminded her of Silco.
Ugh, she’d messed up his nose again. Jinx wadded up the paper, silently fuming, and chucked it beside the others.
She grabbed another piece of paper and set to work again. The pastels were thick and rich in color, wrapped in embossed parchment. They left vivid strokes across the page: dark for the jagged contours of his face, red for his unblinking eye, the palest seafoam for his good one. Silco had bought her a whole set, in a kaleidoscope of colors. They came in a little wooden case, which now sat atop the desk beside Jinx; its lid open and half its contents strewn around. It was a luxury she couldn’t have even imagined owning a week ago.
The thought made her hand freeze, pastel pressed against the page mid-stroke.
It had already been a week since that horrible night—the one that Jinx refused to think about.
With a violent shake of her head, Jinx tore her thoughts back to the page, back to Silco’s angular face.
Someone had bought clothes for her on the first day: a collection of too-big articles of various styles, none of which matched. It was the kind of assortment you’d buy for a child, if you knew utterly nothing about children. It didn’t matter though; not to her. Everything about life at this new version of The Last Drop, her wardrobe included, felt surreal.
Everything except Silco.
On the first night, he’d washed the blood from her face with a wet cloth; soothing her when she flinched away, unable to stop herself from shivering. He’d stayed with her afterwards while she wept, clutching his hand, begging him not to go. When she jolted awake in the middle of the night, gasping, Silco was asleep in the chair beside her bed—fully dressed in his suit and boots from the night before, his good eye closed, expression slack.
His scars didn’t frighten her. Jinx had already seen plenty of scars in her short life; the Undercity was not kind to its denizens. Nor did his unblinking, abyssal eye. How could she fear something that regarded her with such kindness? Jinx didn’t understand why someone like him would want to spend time with someone like her, but she was glad that he did. She didn’t want to be alone. She couldn’t breathe when she was alone.
Jinx felt as though she were constantly adrift on a choppy sea, unmoored without Silco’s presence. Sometimes, when they were together, she felt lighter, almost happy. She would catch herself humming a meaningless little tune, biting her lower lip as she scrawled across page after page. But the second she was alone she felt lost, shattered. Like clockwork she woke in a cold sweat, unsure of her surroundings until realization descended like a pall once more. Like clockwork she slunk down the hall, rabbit clutched tightly, and into his room. He'd started leaving the door cracked for her, just an inch.
Even when the world caved in around her, and she could do nothing but curl into his side and cry until she felt sick, Silco remained a constant; her only constant.
“Look!” Jinx said proudly, holding the finished portrait aloft so he could see it. It could still be improved upon, of course, but she was fairly proud of the likeness.
“Superb work, Jinx.”
She beamed ear to ear as he took in the details.
That was one of her favorite things about Silco: he actually listened to her. He always looked at her drawings, for more than a cursory five seconds. When he asked her opinion, it was because he wanted the genuine answer; not because he was attempting to placate her. He inquired about her interests with the same intensity he showed his work, as if it were an equally important topic.
Jinx felt like an actual person when she was with him, not a stupid little kid who ruined everything she had the misfortune to touch.
It was a novel feeling.
On the night they met, Silco had asked her name—but she’d been unable to speak it. The word died on her lips, unuttered. It wasn’t true, not anymore.
“Jinx,” she’d managed at last, in no more than a hoarse whisper.
“Jinx.” Silco had echoed it, turning the word over. “Yes, I believe it suits you.”
And he’d called Jinx ever since. It still caught her off guard to hear the once-scathing moniker spoken with such warmth.
“Do you wanna keep it?” She asked shyly, holding out the sketch; not knowing why on earth he would, but needing to offer something, anything, to show her gratitude.
“Why, I would be delighted to.” Silco took the paper from her carefully, so as not to crease it. “Thank you, Jinx.”
Warmth spread through her chest as he studied the portrait more closely. His narrow mouth bent in the way she’d come to recognize as a smile.
The next time she was in his office, Jinx was shocked to see that the drawing had been tacked to a board across from the desk. Front and center.
* * *
It was late; nearly her bedtime. This night would be the tenth since she'd met Silco.
Jinx still tried not to think about the circumstances of their meeting. If she kept those thoughts crammed into a teeny tiny box within the chaotic expanse of her mind, maybe they would never escape.
Dinner had already come and gone. As usual, Jinx had slumped against the table and pushed piles around with her fork, only taking apathetic bites at Silco's prompting. Seated at either head of the table, Silco and Sevika talked shop as they ate, sipping occasionally from whiskey-filled glasses.
Sevika had taken her leave after dinner, which was more than fine by Jinx. The woman always looked at her with vague dislike, as if Jinx were a bit of trash that had been tracked home by accident on the bottom of a shoe. Silco had retired to his office with a cigar and a refreshed glass of whiskey. Nations did not sleep, so neither did he. Jinx, overcome with dread at the idea of separation, had followed.
She now lay sprawled on the carpet beside his desk, attempting to comb through her scraggly blue hair with her fingers. At some point, unbeknownst to her, it had become extremely tangled.
You didn’t brush it, stupid. That’s why it’s tangled. The thought was harsh and jagged—said in a voice that wasn’t quite her own. Jinx’s brow furrowed and she tried harder, but only managed to pull her own hair.
It was hopeless. She flopped onto her back, exhaling a huff of frustration.
“Is something the matter, child?”
Jinx opened her mouth to reply but hesitated. What was the right answer? Admitting her childish negligence seemed bound to disappoint him.
“Um, no,” she mumbled, cheeks burning with shame. “I’m fine.”
She lay, hands at her sides, and tried not to think about her stupid tangles. But the more she tried to ignore them, the more she wanted to grab a pair of scissors and just lop the whole thing off. She'd do anything to fix it, anything to avoid disappointing Silco. You already have, sneered a little voice from somewhere deep inside her head.
Silco raised an eyebrow and Jinx’s stomach turned to ice. Cold fingers of dread crept through her chest, constricting. He was mad. She’d picked the wrong answer yet again. He’s gonna realize you mess everything up, he’s gonna dump you just like everyone else, everyone you didn’t kill…
“I’m sorry,” Jinx blurted, eyes filling with instant tears. She sat up, legs tucked up to her chest, desperately scanning his face for traces of contempt. “I’m sorry.”
“What for?” Silco looked perplexed as he capped his elegant silver fountain pen and set it aside.
“I…I ruined it,” Jinx sniffled. “I didn’t mean to! I swear. I just forgot! I’m..I’m sorry.”
Silco rose from his chair and approached the spot where Jinx cowered on the carpet. When she shrank backwards on instinct, he knelt beside her. His expression was gentle, concerned even.
“Jinx, I’m afraid I require more information. Tell me what you believe is ruined, and perhaps I can be of assistance. A great many things appear ruined before they’re fixed, you know.”
Miserably, she held aloft a section of fuzzy blue hair. Then let it drop with a sniff.
“Your hair?” Silco looked almost relieved, which confused her further. “Oh child, that’s no trouble at all. Nothing that a brush and a bit of patience won’t solve.”
That was it? He wasn’t angry? Disappointed? Disgusted by what an incompetent wretch she was?
Jinx took a shuddering breath. She felt lightheaded. Choking rage still compelled her to hack at her hair, to tear off every scrap of her failure. Her hands shook, so she clenched them into fists. It was fine, he wasn’t mad, it was fine. But Jinx’s heart still pounded, heavy and sickening in her chest.
“I recall you wore your hair braided before?” Silco asked, when she did not reply to his previous statement. “Perhaps that would be a solution to the present problem. Going forward, that is.”
“No!” Jinx’s exclamation was too loud in the quiet office.
She buried her face in her hands so that she could not see Silco’s reaction to her outburst. He’s only trying to help you, you ungrateful brat.
“You’re under no obligation, it was merely a suggestion.” Silco’s voice was low and soothing, the tone one might use around a skittish animal.
Her fingers dug into the ragged blue hair at her temples, the dull ache building to pain as she clutched harder. A whimper escaped from behind gritted teeth as her nails dug crescents into her scalp. The pain was bright and vivid amidst the nauseating swirl of her thoughts. A moment later, hands gently enclosed her wrists.
“I cannot allow you to hurt yourself,” Silco murmured as he guided her arms down to rest in her lap instead. Her hands were shaking. “Take a deep breath for me, child. Nothing is ruined. You’ve done nothing wrong.”
“That’s not true,” Jinx wept, hot tears spilling down her cheeks. Her throat burned.
A tidal wave of unwanted images flooded her: unrelenting blue light; a huge body, now crumpled and broken; the look of hatred in her sister’s eyes, just before she struck her. With a sound halfway between a sob and groan of sheer agony, Jinx curled in on herself.
She shuddered, her distress so visceral it was physically painful; electrifying her nerves, choking her until each breath was a gasp. She was dying; god, she was going to die. There was nothing left in the world but oppressive, excruciating memory.
Through this miasma, she felt Silco lay a hand, almost tentatively, on her shoulder. When she did not pull away, he rubbed a slow, soothing pattern across her back. Jinx clung to the sensation like a lifeline.
“I…I don’t know how to braid my hair,” Jinx choked out through her tears. “My s—she always did it for me.”
The last time Vi had touched her had been in anger. She would never sit behind Jinx again, laughing as she braided. Never ever again. You’re a Jinx, Mylo was right.
Jinx sobbed wordlessly into her hands, her whole body shaking.
“That’s alright,” Silco assured, still rubbing her back. “You don’t have to know how. You may wear your hair however you like. Besides, if you are ever so inclined, I’m a deft hand at braiding myself.”
This bit of information was so surprising that Jinx looked up, her big blue eyes wet and bloodshot.
“R-really?” It was temperate in the room, but she was shivering as if caught outside in a storm.
Silco’s hair had always been slicked to his skull in the short time Jinx had known him—and she couldn’t imagine him braiding anyone else’s. The mental image of him braiding Sevika’s hair like some posh Piltie girl’s was almost ludicrous enough to jolt her out of her anguish.
“Indeed. I have lived many lives, child.”
It was true—he’d told her stories on the nights when sleep eluded her, but her mind was too cruel for silence. It shocked her to imagine him as a hungry little boy, or as a faceless laborer in the mines, but it only made him dearer, more real.
Jinx fought to steady her breathing, but her lungs wouldn't comply. Her eyes wouldn’t stop watering. Weak.
“Will you help me with it?” she sniffled at last.
Now that it was abating, she felt suddenly ashamed of her childish fit. All of this, over something as inane as hair.
“Of course.”
The office was palpably quiet, save for Jinx’s occasional sniffs and the heavy tick of Silco’s antique clock on the rear wall.
“You can always ask me for help, you know. With anything at all,” he added. Jinx managed a weak, watery smile in return.
“I’m sorry I—,” she began, but Silco didn’t let her finish.
“You do not need to apologize, Jinx. Not for anything.”
His good eye was soft, and for a second his expression looked almost sad. But the flicker passed so swiftly Jinx wasn’t sure if she imagined it.
“Okay,” she whispered, trying to believe him.
Jinx rubbed her eyes hard with her balled-up sleeves, taking one of those shaky, cleansing breaths that only come after tears. Her head pounded, but it felt lighter, less cluttered.
Silco rose on stiff legs, then extended a hand—helping Jinx to her feet. She felt odd and wobbly, like the ground was extremely far away.
“Come. I believe I already have everything we require.”
When he started towards the door, Jinx kept a tight hold of Silco’s hand. She couldn’t bear to lose the warmth of it, enclosing her smaller one.
Jinx trailed a half-step behind Silco, clutching tight to his hand, down the hall and into his bedroom. The bed was neatly made, dark sheets pulled taut. A thick, leather-bound volume and an ashtray were the only fixtures on his nightstand, save for the lamp.
Even though she’d crept into this room every night, in the wee hours of the morning when long shadows stretched across the floor, it still felt austere and alien. Being inside made Jinx feel furtive, as if she were trespassing somewhere she did not deserve to set foot. She crossed her arms tightly across her stomach.
“Take a seat, I’ll only be a moment.” He indicated the bed with a sweep of his hand, before stepping into the bathroom.
Jinx climbed carefully onto the bed, sitting cross legged at the edge. In Silco’s absence, her thoughts began to tangle up again. She picked at a ragged bit of skin at the edge of her fingernail, trying very very hard not to think about any of it. The skin tore away, leaving a long, red strip behind. It stung.
Jinx was flooded with relief the second Silco emerged from the bathroom. He had a collection of items in his hands, and seemed pleased—so it must have been a success.
First, he handed her a hairbrush with an ivory handle and straight, even bristles. Several hairs were caught in them, some dark and some grey. While Jinx carefully examined the antique, whose carvings were beautifully intricate, Silco set several bits of black string on the nightstand, adding the disclaimer of:
“I will purchase ribbon, if you prefer, but this will have to do for the time being.”
“String’s fine,” Jinx replied quietly, raising the brush.
She started at the bottom, like you were supposed to, but the bristles still caught. For a moment, the brush refused to move; arrested by the snarl of hair. Her impotent frustration flared again. Too hard, too fast, she yanked it free—taking a few blue strands with her.
“May I?” Silco extended a hand for the brush.
Jinx nodded, cheeks hot with agitation, and placed the brush in Silco’s proffered palm. She spun around with mumbled thanks, so that her back faced the edge of the bed instead.
Gently, he began to run the ivory brush through her tangled blue hair. Silco was methodical, as always, working upwards in sections. The bristles caught here and there, at first, but his hand always smoothed away any bright twinge of pain. Before long her hair was entirely smooth, the brush gliding through with ease.
“Now,” Silco asked, once her hair was as thoroughly detangled as it had ever been. “What would you like done with it?”
“I dunno,” she shrugged, scrubbing a sleeve across her face again. Her eyes felt raw and tired.
“I can emulate what you wore before, if you would like.”
“No.” Her response was immediate, vehement. “Something different. I don't care what, it just has to be…different.”
“Hmm, very well.”
Jinx could not see Silco’s work, but she could feel it: the parting, sectioning, and gentle tugs of braiding. His efforts were slow and meticulous, but she was in no rush. On the contrary, Jinx would have been happy to pass an entire day in exactly this manner. She felt small and tired in a nostalgic way. It reminded her of the times when she’d fallen asleep on the couch as a young child and half-woken as she was carried to her bed; back when everything was taken care of for her.
Beyond the leaded windows, bordered by burgundy velvet curtains, the Undercity’s chemtech lights glowed a noxious green. It was likely past midnight by now.
When he was done, Silco led Jinx to the bathroom mirror: “come, see for yourself.”
Rather than the single messy braid she’d worn for years, her hair had been tamed into twin braids: each closely following the line of her skull, ending in a long blue tail. Her bangs were still uneven and scruffy, but the rest now shone neat and sleek. At the end of each braid, Silco had tied an errant bit of string into a careful, symmetrical bow.
Her reflection swam as Jinx’s eyes filled with tears. It was perfect. She flung both arms around Silco’s waist, pressing her cheek into his waistcoat.
“Shall I assume that you like it?” He asked, one hand cradling the back of her head as she hugged him fiercely.
“I love it.” Her voice was half-muffled by fabric. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
“Of course, my dear.”
The term of endearment—said so fondly, so easily—nearly made Jinx start crying anew, but she kept it to a sniffle, her arms tightening around him.
“Can you maybe do it again sometime?” She asked in a small voice, still muffled.
“It would be my pleasure.”
“Maybe tomorrow?”
“Certainly. Tomorrow, and the following, and any other day that you desire.”
“Really?”
His arms tightened around her, and Jinx’s eyes closed; it was nice, being held.
“I promise.”