He had rubbed the treatment along her scalp and the roots of her hair, taking care to work it in well. His mother had used this recipe. Repeated it again and again to rid the hair of vermin. She had sworn that he and his brother were crawling with vermin. He had never seen a one. Not on his own head and not on his brother's. But he'd quickly learned not to gainsay her when she was in a mood, or she would beat them both until they were bruised and bloody. Once, she had said he might not see them, but they were there, crawling on him, in his hair, in his ears. More than once, in a frenzy, she had scraped his scalp with a dry blade, her movements jerky and unsure. She had drawn blood, and then the knife grew slick and red, while he and his brother sobbed and pleaded. He shuddered at the memory. Again, he ran his fingers through Sarah's hair. Shiny and glossy from the oil. He wanted it soft and pretty. With a frown, he wondered if the liniment had done its work yet, if the vermin were destroyed.
