Miss Calva walked in without knocking. Tall and angular, with cold gray eyes and lips pressed into a permanent thin line, she looked at the hair scattered across the bathroom floor and then at the brush in Eloin’s hand.
“What did you do?”
“I just brushed it,” Eloin said quickly.
“You’re careless,” Miss Calva replied.
She snatched the brush from the girl’s hand.
“Always careless.”
She dragged the brush through Eloin’s hair, long hard strokes that tore at the tender scalp beneath. Each pass felt like claws. Eloin squeezed her eyes shut and dug her fingers into her knees.
“Your father expects you to be perfect,” Miss Calva said.
Another harsh stroke.
“You represent the Vale name. Perfection only.”
“I’m trying,” Eloin whispered.
“Trying is for poor people,” Miss Calva snapped. “You’re a Vale. You don’t try. You do.”
Another stroke. Pain flared bright, hot, and sharp. Eloin felt more hair give way. When Miss Calva finally stopped, Eloin’s scalp throbbed.
“Stand up.”
Eloin obeyed on shaky legs.
“You have dinner tonight,” Miss Calva said. “Smile. Sit straight. Don’t make noise. Don’t touch your hair.”
Elo nodded too fast.
“If you embarrass your father,” Miss Calva added, “there will be consequences.”