| Subject: --She comes back in, now carrying her packs.-- |
Author:
Mackenzie
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Date Posted: 12:52:14 03/30/01 Fri
--She sits down in front of the mirror again. This time when she reaches for her brush, she picks up the wooden instrument with pig-hair bristles. Undoing the string that held her braid, she unweaves the sorry excuse for a lady's hair. No longer up in a braid, the locks of soft-red hang to her hips. With a sigh she starts running the brush through her tangled hair, stopping often to pull out a bur or unravel an especially harsh knot.--
--About an hour later her hair is almost knot-free, all the burs are gone, and it falls softly around her frame in gentle waves. Studying herself in the mirror again, she splashes some water on her face and scrubs hard. Drying her face, she sees that it is free of dirt, and her freckles stand out from mud specks. With a smile she undresses and changes into tan breeches, a pastel-green cotton shirt, and knee-high, lace-up leather boots.--
--Studying herself in the mirror again, she picks up her brush once more and gathers her hair up in a tight bun on the top of her head. With a sudden inspiration she digs out a reddish feather from one of her packs and tucks it between the locks. Smiling, she thinks of the red-tailed hawk that she had healed of a broken wing, and the feather he had given her, which was now in her bun. Surveying herself in the mirror, she picks up a piece of parchment and a pencil and goes down the stairs.--
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