![]() “Wouldn’t it be safer if I was downstairs with you? I could help keep watch.” Suppose someone crept in while we were having breakfast? Now, we have fruit, toast and a special treat.” Matilda puts down the tray, goes back to the door to lock it and then pockets the key. Rapunzel, still in her nightgown, gets up and stretches. The door to the suite opens at the same time each day. Its windows are covered in metal lattices whose delicacy belie their strength. Rapunzel lives in a suite of rooms in the mansion’s turret. “I just had a lot of time to practise.”Ĭlarice comes back with her tray under her arm. “Nowhere.” She busies herself, wiping down the bar. “Rapunzel.” She says it under her breath, like it’s a line she’s been practising. “My name’s Adam.” He flicks his fringe out of his eyes. Rapunzel lays out the bottles on the tray and Clarice whisks it away. They all dress down in a uniform of torn t-shirts and roughly chopped fringes, worn slightly too long. “Six beers for the posh boys in the booth.”Ī young man gets up from this group and comes over. Rapunzel likes playing the piano best but like all the staff, she does everything from cleaning toilets to table service. Isn’t everyone, if only we learn how to use our eyes? She mimics Clarice’s toughness, missing their second glance. Rapunzel knows that all the punters in Jake’s bar look at her. It gives the privileged a frisson of fear that they find delicious. ![]() Stray too far from the busier streets is to risk a kicking. It’s not entirely safe but it’s better than it used to be. A few drug dealers still hang around to provide both rich and poor a fix. The warehouses that were once used as doss houses are now bars, artists’ co-operatives and thrift stores. The warehouses are in a seedy part of the city that’s been lifted by association with the rich bohemian crowd in the neighbouring district. They’ll tear your hair out from the roots.” Rapunzel’s heard this before too. “They’ll kill you out there if they ever see this. Red heads only exist in far flung corners of the world where people live in tribes. Natural blondes are on the brink of extinction. Rapunzel’s heard this a million times before. “Women in the city use dye to get this colour but the chemicals turn their hair to straw.” “Real blonde hair.” Matilda touches it as though she still can’t believe it. One hundred stokes and it falls like a sheet of silk. Morning brushing’s a chore that makes her arm ache as her hair reaches to her knees. It’s easiest at night after her haircut, when it only reaches her neck. Rapunzel touches the nape of her neck where she feels most exposed and tries not to smile. “Lucky you’re beautiful enough to be bald,” he adds. That she’s vague and evasive and hasn’t a clue what’s going on most of the time. Her scalp is shiny, every follicle devoid of life. The staff, who are sitting round the table, fall silent, intent on their drinks. ![]() The clock hands have gone from late at night to early in the morning. Only he would dare contradict his sister. Only Clarice would ask such a forthright question.
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