Porcelain Queens

Chapter One

Killian gracelessly took a seat on the edge of his well-worn chair. Alice was already perched on a stool in front of him. He extended his hand out towards the assortment of hairbrushes and combs on the adjacent table and fumbled through them until he settled upon his preferred aid. The former Pirate Captain hummed a soothing sea shanty while he gingerly ran the hairbrush through her wild curls. He was so engrossed in his task, he didn't catch sight of the way in which Alice recoiled each time the rigid bristles intertwined with her stray knots.

"Ow! Papa, it hurts!"

At his daughter's behest, Killian hurriedly set about trying to unbind the brush from the clump of hair it had entangled itself in.

"Bl- sorry, Starfish. This task demands a certain amount of care. I seem to have gotten preoccupied by my own thoughts. Won't happen again."

"But I don't understand. Why do you have to do this every day? I don't like it."

"You're going to have to elaborate," suggested Killian, cocking an eyebrow.

"Why do you have to brush my hair every day? You brush it so it looks different. Can't we just leave it?" Demanded Alice. She pivoted on her stool to face her father before her expression shifted from one of undiluted defiance to one of someone immersed in deep contemplation. A moment of tranquility and then Killian watched as the blood drained from her face. Her forget-me-not irises met his bewildered gaze, she hesitated and then added, "It's 'cause of the Witch in my dreams, isn't it? She has hair like me. Why do I have hair like her, Papa?"

Her words reopened a gaping wound Killian had long since tried to conceal. He felt his muscles tauten as the fires of sorrow rained over him. No matter how eager he might normally have been to entertain her every question, this subject went leaps and bounds beyond what he'd surmised he ought to brace himself for. His face betrayed dismay as his insufficiently thought out objections manifested in the form of a solitary, strangled murmur. He narrowly refrained from interjecting that both Liam and Alice's own namesake were also endowed with voluminous curly locks but he opted against divulging those details upon being briskly reminded that the curls atop their heads were exceptionally tighter than those of his daughter's. No, in his mind, he'd comprehended precisely from whom she'd inherited her untamed tendrils and he couldn't stomach the notion of it- couldn't suffer to concede that so much as a trace of that heinous demon resided in his little girl. And so, every time the skies were set alight by the amber, violet and magenta haze of sunrise, he committed himself to meticulously neatening Alice's main until not one ringlet remained in his field of view. He felt that his employment of this drastic measure was nonsensical, excessive, even. Here he was, an erstwhile Pirate Captain, going into a mild, internal frenzy over something as superficial as the appearance of his child's hair.

"Her hair is more often braided than not, love. Well, that's what I gather from your descriptions. Not exactly you're coloring either. I'm not sure what you're getting at," retorted Killian, his tone imbued with the ghost of vexation.

"It's not always braided, Papa," the girl explained. "Why can't I leave the tower?" Killian released a dispirited sigh, settled his forehead against his palm and absent-mindedly set about massaging his brow. He knew she didn't need to have the gift of prophetic dreaming to divine what his, as of yet, invariable response to that question would be. The inquisitive lass was presumably about to scrutinize him over another matter shrouded in mystery.

"We've discussed this, Alice. There's a spell keeping you entrapped- a barrier, if you will," Killian replied, his barely veiled exasperation bleeding through the cracks.

"It's her isn't it? You're not telling me something. You told me lying is bad!"

"I haven't lied, love. In time, I'll gladly disclose everything you need to know," Killian reassured her.