keridwen
ames are a shackle.” her mother would say as she ran their deerhorn comb through her hair. “They have the power to bind, to leak, to entrap. Only I can be trusted with yours.”
“And I with yours?” The girl would view her mother’s vicious beauty upside down. The comb would catch and halt.
“No,” her mother would whisper, soft like a cat’s paw, “I would not ask you to bear that.”
And they knew each other so.