When Songbirds Fly | Bellamy Blake

Chapter Seventy-One: Lessons

Warning: Wren and Bellamy need to take a cold shower. Separately. I'm serious, it was weird to write but I fucking love the scene so screw it (lmao)

—

'I don't know. Maybe it's not such a good idea.'

Anxiously biting the inside of my cheek, I stare at myself in the mirror. Raven, Harper and Emori stand behind my chair, regarding me with an unnerving scrutiny.

Raven huffs, 'Come on, it's just a damn haircut. Since when are you one to play it safe?

'Have any of you actually done this before?'

Hesitantly, they shake their heads. Harper offers me a reassuring smile. 'Hey, if it goes wrong, you can just grow it out again.'

Murphy — who sits on the counter — lets out a groan as his head thuds back against the mirror, 'Great. Now that we've established that this may or may not look horrible, can I go?'

'Nope. You've known her the longest, seen all the bad preteen looks. What are we working with?'

—

The unruly mane of dark curls that once framed my face have gone, replaced by smooth locks that fall just past my shoulders — aided by the straighteners that Raven had salvaged from her room. Short bangs now hide my mole-spotted forehead, the feathered edges just visible in my eyeline.

I examine my appearance in the tall mirror that stands next to the bed, smiling softly. Bellamy kneels at my feet, which are planted on an upturned crate. His brows furrow in concentration as he marks the canvas-like material around my legs with small pins. Grimacing, I try to shift my weight.

Bellamy glances up at me, a measuring tape clamped between his teeth. His words are slightly muffled by it, 'Stop fidgeting.'

'I'm not fidgeting, I'm just bored. Didn't think it'd take this long to make a pair of pants.'

He shrugs as he removes the tape, readjusting the position of one of the pins. 'It depends. They gotta last, have enough space to be rolled up so you can get your leg on and off... and I like adding pockets.' The last part he adds with a flicker of pride in his umber eyes.

I raise an amused eyebrow. 'And by "pockets", we're talking...'

Our gazes meet again and he breaks into a grin. 'Don't worry, I don't do pointless pockets.'

An itch starts in my calf. I reach down to scratch it just as he tries to place another pin into the fabric. Huffing impatiently, he sets the pincushion down. 'Do you want to take a break?'

Quickly straightening up, I lower my head. 'No. Sorry. Just need something else to do. You know me, multitasking is kinda my natural way of doing things.'

He lets out a quiet laugh, passing me a relatively thin book from the desk behind us. 'Read to me,' he murmurs.

'You sure? What even is this? Looks like that old copy of The Iliad.'

He lightly taps the image on the azure cover, the golden helmet of exact same shape as the one on his favourite book. 'It's the same story,' he says, 'yeah. Only you're probably gonna cry at the end. I know I did.'

'But... it's not The Iliad?'

He sends me an exasperated look. 'Sweetheart, I really want to finish these pants soon. Start reading and I'll answer questions later, okay?'

I nod quietly. 'Fine.' Opening it up to the first page, I find myself satisfied with the simple font. I clear my throat as I hold the book up at eye-height. '"My father was a king and the son of kings. He was a short man, as most of us were, and bu— bui—
built like a bull, all shoulders. He... married my mother when she was four— fourteen—" What the fuck?'