The Queen's Curls

-1934- Change

The hinges must have squeaked but she couldn't hear it over the ringing in her ears. The next thing to register in her brain is the searing pain across her back and her inability to open her right eye.

"Miss!" she heard someone say, though their voice sounded very far away. "Miss, are you alright? Can you stand?"

The parlour woman groans, and her back responds with a nice, friendly surge of excruciating pain.

"Wait," says the person, — a boy, considering the pitch of his voice. "Let me help you."

The parlour woman was about to protest, but she was soon filled with the intoxicating urge to sleep. And so she did.

x x x

The parlour woman leans back to look at Glinda's choking form, only to see that she was dead. The woman let's the girl in front of her go, and she falls to the ground in a heap of of skirts and dead weight.

The parlour woman hears a click behind her and whirls around to see Henry with a stick of dynamite in one hand and a match in the other.

It was then that the parlour woman saw the many crates around the room, and some of them were open, revealing dozens and dozens of sticks of dynamite.

"I'm sorry, miss," he says, his eyes as empty as the beer bottles scattered across the floor, "but I must follow my boss's orders: Kill the woman with the mint green eyes."

Henry then tossed the lit dynamite into one of the crates, and walked out of the room.

x x x

When she awoke for a second time on what she was fairly certain was one of the couches in her waiting room, the first thing that rendered in her what seemed to be three existing brain cells is that her right eye socket seemed eerily empty.

The next thing she noticed was the boy sitting on a chair close to her with his head in his hands. His hair was sticking out at some of the oddest angles and his hands were covered in cuts.

The parlour woman, though trying to be quiet, attempted to sit up, but was soon met with intense pain from her back. The boy must have heard her because he looked up faster than she thought possible.

"Don't move too much, miss," the boy said. "You might reopen your wounds."

The parlour woman nodded and gently laid herself back down. "What's your name, my dear?" she croaked.

The boy offers a shy smile. "I'm Gregory, miss. Gregory Johnson."

The parlour woman smiles. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Gregory. If you don't mind me asking, how in the world did you manage to get me on this couch?"

Gregory's smile widens with pride. "I'm a witch in training, miss."

The parlour woman raises an eyebrow. "A boy witch?"

The boy turns shy and looks away. "I know it's strange and probably frowned upon by, well, everyone, but—"

The parlour woman reaches out and grasps the boys hand. She inhales deeply and says, "In my eyes, anyone who frowns upon someone who is trying to make a change to the world is the person who should be frowned upon."

The boy looks up into the parlour woman's eyes with a look of utter astonishment accompanied by a bit of shock and a very large amount of awe.

The parlour woman's smile fades. "Am I the first person to ever say that to you?"

Gregory, seeming to shake himself out of a daze, nods. "Yes. The rest of the people I have told — mind you, I have told very few about my career choice — have frowned upon the idea of a boy witch."

The parlour woman's smile returns. "Well, I, for one, think that you have made a wonderful choice. It nice to see something different happen every once in a while."

The boy cocks his head. "What do you mean by that?"

"You're the first boy witch I've seen in my entire eight hundred years of existence."

Gregory seems to think about this for a few seconds before his jaw drops to the table in front of him. "Eight hundred years? Wait." He puts a hand up in front of him. "Are you a time traveler?"

The parlour woman laughs. "Finally, someone who guesses correct instead of assuming that I'm a witch."

Gregory laughs, a sound full of hope and joy and everything in between. "But you must be a witch. Your familiars were all around you after I brought you over to this sofa."

The parlour woman smiles. "Correct again, Gregory."

The woman attempts to prop herself up on her elbow, but fails miserably. Gregory moves to help her, but she waves him away, claiming that she was fully capable of getting up herself. Ignoring her, Gregory uses some of his skills to lift the parlour woman off the couch and brings her to a standing position.

The parlour woman sighs. "Thank you."

The boy smiles and shrugs. "It's my pleasure."

The woman smiles, but soon winces. "Could you be a dear and grab the Sandamine for me?"

Gregory jumps to it, and is soon applying the ointment to the woman's wounds. "What is this, might I ask?"

"This ointment can mix with human sweat to accelerate the healing process. I've used this multiple times, and it has yet to fail me."

Gregory nods, and, having finished applying the ointment to the parlour woman's wounds, closes the bottle of Sandamine and places it back where he found it.

"Now," the woman says, walking over to a nearby salon chair. "Would you like a haircut?"

x x x

The parlour woman and her client walk to the front of the store where the counter is. The parlour woman, having healed quite the amount already, bends over slightly to reach into one of the counter's lower drawers. She soon returns with a locket on a chain in her hand.

"I want you to have this," she says, holding the necklace out to the boy in front of her. "This locket has been with me through every change I have made to the existing timeline, and I want you to keep it with you as you continue to go against what the people around you might consider 'normal'."

Gregory offers a small smile and accepts the locket. "Thank you, miss. This is probably the best thing I have ever received."

The parlour woman mirrors the boy's expression. She then leans over the counter and plants a kiss on Gregory's forehead. "Goodbye, Gregory Johnson, and may the wisps of time be kind to you on your journey of change."