Screams were once again heard in the LaVelle east annex. But this time, Florence was wide awake. 

“No!” she screamed, “It was a gift! Stop! Stop it! Don’t! Noooo!”

“Hold her DOWN!” shouted Madam Rosanna. “She’s the size of a child—you’re knights, how hard can it be?”

“We don’t wanna hurt her, m'lady,” one of them bellowed over the din.

“Duke LaVelle gave his permission," she shouted back, "now HOLD HER DOWN!”

“Stop it! No! Please don’t! Don’t! DON'T!” Florence’s screams were ignored as the three knights held her down—one at her legs and feet, one at her middle and arms, and one at her shoulders and neck, holding her head still with one huge hand. Her shouts grew muffled as he squeezed her jaw. He looked away as the tears ran down her face.

“Begin!” Madam Rosanna commanded, staring down at Florence with a satisfied smile. 

The stylist began to snip off Florence’s hair in quick, sure snips, leaving only the golden shade that grew near the top of her head down to her ears and chin. As her long coral, pink, and lavender locks hit the marble tile, they turned silver in color, then slowly crumbled like ash beneath their feet.

Madam Rosanna's smile twisted downward in disgust.

Snip! Snip! Snip-snip-snip! 

Florence’s slight body shook with sobs beneath the heavy weight of the knights. None of them looked at her, or at each other. 

“All done with the first stage, Madam,” the stylist announced, her face passive. “It would be best for her to sit up for me to…clean up the ends. If you think she will cooperate.”

“Well, Florence?” Madam Rosanna stood over her. “Will you cooperate now?”

The knight released Florence’s face, leaving deep red marks where he had pinched around her jaw to hold her still. His face reddened in shame—he knew there would be bruises. 

“Yes,” she whispered, her voice low and hoarse. 

Her eyes looked vacant. Internally, Madan Rosanna grinned. Florence had needed breaking, and she’d also needed her horrible hair gone, so this had accomplished two things at once. Efficient and satisfying.

Florence sat still, her body battered and bruised from being held down, as the stylist did her best to salvage Florence’s short, golden hair. 

♥♥⸸

This is a dream. I know this is a dream. 

I see the dragon from the hellscape, made of the pink and lavender clouds, brighter than they’ve ever been—as if the sun shines behind them like a sunset. My eyes prick with more tears.

How are my eyes not empty? I had cried so much earlier today, then cried myself to sleep, and now…

This ancient one greets this heartbroken one, the dragon says to me. 

“I’ve missed you so much,” I say, wishing with all my might that I could hug her. 

To my surprise, when I walk up to her fluffy pink leg, I can wrap my arms around it. Soft, warm, and solid, just as my old stuffed rabbit would feel.

There’s no holding back my sobs now. 

Little heartbroken one, the dragon says to me, do not despair. The gift I bestowed upon you is not so easily destroyed. 

“What do you mean?” I ask her. I let go of her leg and walk forward so I can see her head, which she dips low for me. 

Though I am ancient, I am… she presses her head to mine and I see an image of a young dragon, the colors of my hair, hiding and pouncing on another, then jumping with delight.

“You are mischievous,” I say with surprise, grinning wide, a laugh hiccupping its way out between my uneven breaths. 

Yes, she says, and it has been far too long since I have amused myself in such a way. You will understand when you wake, young one. Do not despair. My gift will always be with you, for as long as you wish it to be.

♥♥⸸

When I wake up, I immediately feel my long hair spread around me, unbound. It grew back!

“Impossible!”

I run to the mirror and see the same long-haired Florence as yesterday, with only the bruises on my face as evidence that the horrible event had happened at all.

My dream…the dragon! It was true. 

I clasp my hands to my sore cheeks and dance around my room in joy. Madam Rosanna won’t be pleased, but what can she do? It will grow back no matter what she does. Again and again!

“Ha!” I shout. “Ha, ha!” 

I hear a gasp behind me. “My lady!” Mary exclaims. “Your hair!”

“I know!” I shout, then tell her what happened. I trust her not to share everything with everyone else, but it’ll be impossible to hide my hair growing back, so I might as well offer some kind of explanation. 

As expected, Madam Rosanna is more than displeased. She presses her mouth in a firm line as I explain that my hair will always grow back to this state due to a spell from a dragon—it’s obviously out of my control. 

“A wig,” she states crisply. “You shall wear a wig during your debut.”

I wrinkle my nose, but stay quiet. I learned the hard way that I cannot go against what Madam Rosanna orders. My sore, bruised body is a testament to this fact.

Over the next few weeks, my dance lessons intensify, and no hour of the day is sacred. Even lunch and dinner are combined with etiquette, social, and political lessons. My mind constantly spins—a dizzying whirlwind of information.

The seamstress stops by the week before my debut with an ensemble that is...not to my taste, to put it politely. As one must.

Again, I stay quiet. 

Madam Rosanna has ordered a curly, red wig that I am to wear during my debut. I have to admit that it goes better with the ensemble than my current hair colors. With everything on, I certainly look like a debutante, even if I do not feel like one in the slightest. 

Parts of my body are still black with bruises, but they are well hidden beneath the ornate dress. My mind has nearly been broken with the amount of information Madam Rosanna and the instructors have crammed into it during the past month. My feet—well, if I pretend I don’t have any, then it’s not so bad. Dancing, dancing, dancing, and dancing in the horrible debutante shoes was almost more torturous than being beaten. 

"You'll get used to the shoes," Madam Rosanna had assured me. Lies! My raw, blistered feet are proof.

Each night, I count one day less in the secret journal I've been keeping, the one I've been using to practice my terrible penmanship by writing mean things about Madam Rosanna.

Madam Rosanna is a darn harpy. She is ugly, too.

Madam Rosanna can go to HELL and BURN for ALL ETERNITY!

Madam Rosanna should eat rocks, but only with the correct spoon.

It's one small way for me to release some of the pent-up frustration I feel. Otherwise, I would've gone mad all over again. We can't have that—not so close to my debut—because soon enough, there are only a few days left.

It’s almost over, I tell myself. In a few days, it will all be over.