I shake my head. “When I came early, the doctor turned her away because he had never delivered a Chinese baby. By the time Father found us, Mother was dead.”
And now he is, too. A tear breaks loose, but I bar the others from leaving. Father would be horrified if I gave in to all my Snake weaknesses. Annamae hands me a handkerchief, and I blow my nose. Then she pushes away the hair sticking to my face and frowns.
“You got looks that could trip a fella. This ain’t gonna be easy.” She pulls my chin from side to side. Her fingers feel cool against my hot skin. “Well, we can do one thing.”
She pulls sewing scissors from what seems to be a well-stocked saddlebag.
“Turn around,” she orders, pulling off my hat.
I recoil, remembering the fortune-teller’s warning about warding off back luck. Yet I doubt my luck could get much worse than it is now.
Before I can speak, I hear a snip. I clasp my hands tightly together as the last shreds of my identity are shorn away.
Annamae holds up my hair like a tangle of seaweed she scooped from the ocean. I draw in my breath at the sight. By the time she finishes, my head feels lighter, airy even. I run my fingers through my shorn locks.
“It’ll grow back,” says Annamae, giving me a stern look. She pats her bound chest, well hidden under the folds of her frock coat. “So you know, we each have our battles to fight.”
I nod. She was right to cut it off.
She purses her lips, not satisfied. “Still too pretty. Keep you’s hat low even at night when we’re around people. Nothing we can do about our colors, though, short of Indian paint.”
“We could wear handkerchiefs over our faces. But then we’re back to looking like criminals.”
She grabs a handful of dirt. As she brings it near my face, I recoil. “You think that’s necessary?”
“I know. I hate being grimy, too.” She rubs the dirt into my cheeks. I try to hold still. My eye catches on a piece of twine around her wrist with a single bauble—a brown rock with a hole in it. “Just think, you’s still clean under the dirt.”
When I’m grubby enough to satisfy her, she pulls my hat low over my eyes and cinches the cord. The wet dirt on my face smells foul and makes me sneeze.
I dab my nose with my handkerchief. Annamae watches me fold the hanky into a neat square and clucks her tongue.
“At least you got that fiddle. But you still gonna need to man it up.” She pokes at my soft thigh.
I flinch and eye her athletic build.
“I must run ten miles a day on chores, that’s why I’m so tough.” She chuckles.
“Ten miles?”
She nods. “Female slaves gotta do what we can to keep outta trouble. The less wag in your wagon, the better. You just got a few girl kinks to work out. You’s wrists, for one. Too bendy. You ready to go?”
Before we leave, she digs a shallow grave with the heel of her boot, deposits in my severed strands, then kicks dirt back over it. I haul a rock and place it on top for good measure.
Slowly, we part the willow curtain. I follow Annamae back onto the deserted trail, feeling naked despite all my layers. The morning rays begin to paint the landscape with pastels. Yesterday morning, the sight would have filled me with wonder. Now, my gut chokes with sand and all I see before me is a road with no end.