The noble falls atop the bed, too exhausted to take off their cloak. The candle in front of the mirror burns silently, wax dripping off the candlestick onto the mahogany wood dresser. Crushed velvet cushions, their golden yellow tassels now dull brown with age, fall to the floor as the stranger suddenly spreads their arms. A still life painting of fruit in a bowl hangs on the wall next to the bathroom. Candlelight and age have deepened its shadows, and the fruits have become the color of rot. On the bedtable, white dewflowers and lilies stand in a small glass vase like pillars reaching towards the sky. Their green stems and bright petals give the only signs of life the room has. Even its occupant could now be mistaken for an oversized doll if their chest were not rising and falling. In the middle of the room, an old armchair faces the door. Its arms jut out in front of its back, which is separated from its base. Off-white cloth patterned with colored embroidery covers the cushioned back and seat of the chair. The embroidered flowers stand in perfect lines of red, blue, purple, and yellow, with green squares of stem stitched below them.
The noble turns onto their side. They stare at the cream bedspread, painted pale yellow in the softening light. They cannot find a single trace of dust on the comforter or blankets. The bed must have been freshly cleaned. The noble’s eyes wander, and fix upon the windows. The moonless night can barely be seen through the cloudy panes. The candle flickers and sputters. Their eyelids droop, but they push themself up to sit on the edge of the bed. They look out, and see nothing but the bare cobblestones on the road. They know that if someone was outside waiting for them, they would have to leave immediately. They had run for three days, ducking through alleyways and hiding amongst the trees. They would have to leave this inn in the morning. The noble needed rest, but there was something they had to take care of first.
They get to their feet with a groan, and drag the armchair over to the mirror. The legs leave grey scrapes on the hardwood floor. The stranger removes the hood of their cloak and shrugs it off. The cloak falls in a heap. They produce a letter opener from the pouch on their belt. The glint of the blade in the candlelight sends a chill down their spine. For a couple of seconds they hesitate, but they grab a piece of their midnight blue hair and push the blade through it. The cut strands of hair flutter onto the dresser, mingling with the wax and dust. The noble sighs, then falls onto the chair. They take another lock of their hair and cut close to their head. Dark blue hairs more than a foot long float to the floor. A few hairs hang over the arm of the chair like drying laundry. The noble doesn’t notice. More and more hair comes to rest on the inn’s floor and the chair. The cut hair curves around them like a wreath when they finish.
The noble tucks the letter opener back in its pouch. They look at their reflection in the mirror, and then run their fingers through their shorter hair. The cut is jagged, like broken glass. They look down, and notice the mess they have created. Warm wax continues to drip over the hair on the dresser. The noble sweeps the hair into their hand. They crouch down to clean the rest, sweep into a pile the hair they’d grown out for years, and shiver when they feel how cold it is, even with the candlelight. Not for a long time had they felt cold air on their neck. It had been warm outside. They step over to a window. Old salt and mildew coat the windowsill like glue. The window finally opens with a crack. A warm breeze blasts into the room, rustling the noble’s hair by their temples and ears. The noble looks at their face once more. Before the mirror stands a stranger.