By afternoon, Nesa notes my attempts not to fall asleep while sitting on the bench and arranges a nest of blankets at the front for me, or the prow, as she calls it. I sleep through most of the day, as well as all of the night in our little camp on the riverbank.
The following morning, while Gair minds the sail, Nesa sits down behind me with comb in hand and says, “Let me see what I can do with your hair.”
“It’s bad,” I admit.
“I can see that,” she says, not unkindly. “But I like a challenge.” She leans in and whispers, “I don’t want you to have to cut it. Men like long hair, you know.”
Not just men. My cheeks warm as I remember Bren sitting at my bedside, his long hair unbound, and my hand reaching out to play with it. Some things I should probably not think about. I ask quickly, “You
