scott street

3: SOPHIE

Sophie brushed her hair two hundred and fifty times a day.

One hundred and twenty five strokes in the morning, one hundred and twenty five strokes in the evening. All done evenly with a silver-backed hairbrush, starting at the stroke of a quarter past the hour, and ending at the stroke of half past the hour. Just like her mother had taught her.

Except these days, she had it done by about twenty three minutes past the hour. It used to take longer. She'd had more hair, then; it still wasn't back to its pre-school glory.

This morning, like every morning, she did it at her vanity, sitting in front of the back window that looked down onto the town square. It was a cold, bright morning, but there was no rain, and a light frost gleamed here and there, though it was quickly being trampled by people going to market. Sophie watched them out of the corner of her eye; partially for something to do, partially so she wouldn't have to look at the stack of letters on her desk. Including the one that Hester had enchanted to bite. It hadn't even been all that important, for the amount of effort. Sophie suspected it was just Hester's impulse to be cruel...

On the edge of her vision, she saw Agatha emerge into the square.

She knew it was Agatha immediately; Sophie would know her anywhere, and, besides, no one else in Gavaldon wore the same terrible coat so religiously. It was early for Agatha to be out, but it was market day, and possibly the only thing Agatha loved more than weird animals, sleeping, the cat, and her mother... was food.

Sighing, Sophie put her hairbrush down and opened the window, intending to call out to her–

But once she'd opened the window, she sat quite still. She wasn't sure what made her do it... but rather than calling down to Agatha, Sophie hung back, and watched.

Agatha sloped like she always did, hands in the pockets of her great long overcoat. She looked clammy and displeased in the bright sun, and the laces on one of her infamous boots were trailing in the dust. Sophie couldn't believe they had survived their whole time at school, but they were obstinate in their fraying and scuffs and general untidiness, just like their owner.

"Good morning," the tailor's son said to her, in every appearance of a friendly greeting. Agatha shot him a spooked look and sped up, as if he'd made a threat at her. He blinked, then turned and went on, shrugging to himself.

She did it again, at the haberdashery stall; the young girl working there smiled at her, and Agatha stared at her boots. And then at the fishmonger, when he handed her some assorted bag of mussels, cockles and winkles on the house ("For the Cursebreaker!") and she clutched them like they were going to come to life and run away from her.

Sophie watched her stomp a few metres away to go and sit in a heap on a bench behind a tree, and pick anxiously at the bag, soggy with vinegar. Sophie had never liked the disgusting things– shellfish scrounged off the saltwater lake rocks, destroyed in salt and pepper and vinegar– but Agatha had coveted them, having a taste for the sour and vinegar-inclined, probably because of Callis's cooking. Sophie remembered how pleased she'd been on the occasions that Callis had scraped together the extra coins for her to buy them. She'd never eaten the entire portion, though, even though she absolutely could have done. She'd always saved half for her mother.

Which she was clearly doing now, Sophie thought, as Agatha fretfully poured a handful into her mouth and then screwed up the still half-full bag, wiping her hands on her knee. Sophie didn't tend to wonder why Agatha always smelled funny. Between the plethora of herbs hanging in Graves Hill, their inconsistent running water and her few clothes, she was good at getting grubby.