“Dear Marlinchen, no one will believe we’re anything but witches if you don’t put a comb through your hair.” A flush crawled over my cheeks. I left my bed and sat down at my boudoir, scrutinizing my face in the mirror. My sallow cheeks now bore two splotches of red. My hair was a mess of coils that fell as heavy as a quilt over my shoulders. “I don’t know what to do,” I said. “It’s too long.”
