Chapter 708: To The Workshop
Chapter 707: To The Workshop
Orion flicked Sophia on the forehead.
She blinked, her hand flying up to cover the spot as a pout formed on her face.
"Do not focus on them," he said simply.
Sophia rubbed her forehead, still pouting. "You did not have to flick me."
"It was the most efficient way to get your attention."
"You could have used words."
Orion paused. "Well...that is true, but I felt like doing that, so I did."
Sophia glared at him. There was no heat in it, and then she pushed him lightly on the chest.
"Do not walk next to me if you are going to be physical," she said.
Orion chuckled, and then he reached out and dragged her closer, his arm settling around her shoulders in a grip that was firm enough to keep her in place but gentle enough that she could have pulled away if she truly wanted to, but she did not.
"I am not going anywhere," he said. "You will simply have to deal with it."
Sophia rolled her eyes so dramatically that Olga, walking a few paces ahead, had to hide her smile behind her hand.
The path narrowed as they walked, the snow deepening slightly where fewer people had walked. The buildings here were older than those near the square, their wooden walls weathered by years of Nirvana’s harsh winters, but they were well-maintained, their windows intact, their doors sturdy.
Sophia had not realized the workshop was so close to the laundry department.
She had been to the laundry department before—back when she had first arrived at the pack, when she had been trying to prove herself useful, when she had knocked over a basin of water and soaked a washerwoman’s apron. The memory made her wince internally.
But she had never noticed the building beside it.
The workshop was small, its stone walls painted a soft cream that had faded in places to something closer to gray. A wooden sign hung above the door, carved with symbols Sophia did not recognize—a comb, a brush, a needle, and a curling vine that might have been meant to represent hair. Stalls lined the front of the building, sheltered by a wooden awning that kept the snow off the workers and their clients.
Women sat in those stalls, their hands moving with practiced efficiency as they styled hair or applied pigments to skin. Men worked alongside them, their fingers just as nimble, their focus just as intent. Children sat with their parents, some watching curiously, others playing quietly at their feet.
The conversation was lively—voices overlapping, laughter rising, the easy chaos of people who enjoyed their work and each other’s company.
Then someone looked up.
The laughter stopped, and the hands stilled.
A woman in the nearest stall dropped her comb, the clatter of wood against stone echoing loudly in the sudden silence.
Sophia felt the weight of every eye settle on her and Orion.
Orion, annoyingly, seemed entirely unaffected.
Then a child squealed.
The sound was high and bright, cutting through the tension. A little girl no older than six or seven broke free from a woman’s side and rushed toward Sophia, her small boots kicking up snow as she ran.
Sophia barely had time to react before the girl stopped directly in front of her, looking up with wide, excited eyes.
"It has been a while since I saw you!" the girl said.
Sophia frowned, searching her memory. The face was familiar, but she could not place it.
The girl tilted her head. "You helped me catch a moonfin during the festival! I was with my daddy!"
Sophia’s eyes widened as she remembered the child.
"Ah," Sophia said, a genuine smile tugging at her lips. "I remember now."
The girl beamed.
"It has been a long time," Sophia said softly.
The girl nodded eagerly. "My mummy works here," she said, pointing toward one of the women in the stalls. "She is very good. She can do all sorts of things with hair. She could make yours look really pretty if you want."
Sophia chuckled. "Maybe next time. I came for something else today."
The girl looked disappointed but nodded sagely, as if she understood the weight of adult responsibilities.
Around them, the workers had recovered from their initial shock. A woman stepped forward, her cream-colored feather earring swaying with her movement.
"Luna," she said, bowing her head respectfully. "What brings you here? How can we be of assistance?"
Olga stepped forward before Sophia could answer.
"We need to solve the mystery of her hair," she said simply.
Before Sophia could even blink, she found herself being guided toward a stool near the center of the stalls. Olga’s hands were gentle but firm, and within moments, Sophia was seated, her hair loose around her shoulders, the workers gathered in a loose circle around her.
Orion did not follow. He had positioned himself in the corner of the workshop, his back against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. He looked like he was trying to appear unobtrusive.
It was not working.
Within seconds, a small boy had wandered over to him, staring up at his face with open curiosity. Another child followed shortly after, then another. One particularly bold girl tugged at the edge of his cloak and asked if she could climb him.
Orion did not even get to reply before she started her attempt. The other children, seeing as he laughed at her attempt, thought it was a nice idea to attempt too.
Sophia bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.
A worker nearby cleared her throat, drawing Sophia’s attention back to the matter at hand. She was a middle-aged woman with a kind face and steady hands, her cream feather earrings matching the others.
"The hair is strange," she said, lifting a strand of Sophia’s hair and examining it closely. "It is obvious that something was used on it, but if it is a dye, why is it not changing color yet? Even the strongest dyes fade eventually, especially after months of washing."
Another woman nodded beside her. "That is my question as well. I would have tried to smell it, but given that she has washed her hair numerous times, I doubt we would pick up any scent of the original chemicals or herbs used."
A man stepped forward, his brow furrowed. He was younger than the others, his hands stained with what looked like ink.
"Dye for hair has never behaved like this," he said. "Not in all the years I have worked in this department. Whatever that vile woman Victoria used, it was something else entirely."
Another woman spoke up from the edge of the circle. She was older, her gray hair pulled back in a tight bun. She wore a beaded necklace with the same cream color.
"The hair does not pull out easily either. That is unusual. With that level of damage, strands should be brittle. They should break. But hers do not."
She paused, her eyes narrowing.
"What else could be used to make hair this black? Or perhaps...is there black magic involved in this? I would not put it past Victoria to do something like that."
Everyone went quiet.
Sophia’s chest tightened.
Olga spoke then, her voice soft.
"Sophia," she said gently, "do you remember how the product that was used on your hair smelled?"
