“Please, sir, I am not trying to remove your digits,” Montague says, his voice chiding, as he angles his scissors are Fassn’s filthy, probing fingers.
“Can I keep the parts that fall off?” Fassn asks, watching the grey curls flutter to the floor.
“Er, but of course,” says Montague, thinking hard about the money this fiasco will bring in. “You may have to act fast, though, lest your hair be mixed with that of your friends.”
“More’s merrier, says Old Ajralan,” Fassn says.
Meanwhile, across the room, Abia, Cang and Shyan relax in the tubs. Fassn pipes up to continue speaking, but Cang raises a hand from the water, and, eyes closed, quite in repose, says, “Quiet, please.”