I really had to take the blasted money to the Exchange. I checked on Ireq, who was recovering but wouldn’t be working for at least another day. “Sorry,” he said. “Don’t be daft, Ireq. Just get better.” There were shrieks next door and I found Jivrais and Essie engaged in a tussle for lip-paint in Essie’s room, breathless and giggling, and with water all over the floor from a jug they’d knocked over. “Oi, you two! Look at this place! And the pair of you, talk about dragged through a hedge backwards. Jivrais, get a cloth, get that water up. Essie, come here, let me do your hair. Honestly.” “Yes, Babylon.” I combed and oiled Essie’ dark curls into some sort of order. I spend more time on the crew’s hair than I do on my own – mine’s curlier than Essie’s, practically ringlets, long, and black. Most of the time I just wash it, run my fingers through it with a bit of scented oil and leave it. Too much else to do. But Essie’ hair pays for having a fuss made.
