Chapter Three

 

 

Deirdre woke before the sun rose and, for the first time in a while, felt completely refreshed as the scent of early-morning dew greeted her. It was too early to wake James, so she looked around for Iain. At first he was nowhere in sight; she hastily scrambled to her feet, scanning the area, wildly wondering if he had gone off to report her to the army and was about to burst through the trees with tanks in tow.

Okay, maybe the tanks are kind of unrealistic…

But she soon spotted him seated at the base of a nearby tree, his chin on his chest as if he was asleep. Chiding herself for jumping to conclusions, she began to stretch, hoping to push out both her panic and her stiffness.

The dew was quite heavy, and since they were slightly low on water, she took out a handkerchief that she had messily embroidered a couple of years ago from her pack. As she wandered around the area, she let it soak up the beads of water from high grasses and bushes, wringing the moisture out and drinking it when the cloth was soaked. Along the way, she spotted several horse mushrooms. Her stomach grumbled as memories surfaced of past times she’d collected and cooked them while on trips with the orphanage Sisters and girls.

Within just ten minutes, she’d carefully examined and collected the best-looking ones in the area, returning to the campsite. She glanced over to see Iain apparently still asleep.

As quickly and quietly as she could, she got kindling and began to start a fire, feeling a bit guilty as she did so.

But it isn’t night anymore, and he just said to not light a fire at night. She scowled at her flint as she struck sparks into the kindling. And James and I had a fire the other night, but we didn’t have any faery problems! And I never had any problems while camping either, and neither did anyone else I knew back in the town by the orphanage. Iain might be a soldier, but he’s still a city boy!

She glanced over her shoulder at Iain again, making sure he was still asleep, before turning back to nursing the new flames into a full fire.

After wiping down and cleaning the mushrooms, she found thin, sturdy twigs, got them as damp as possible, skewered the mushrooms, and set them close to the fire. As they cooked, she leaned forward and inhaled the earthy, slightly pungent scent.

This will be much better than James’s food!

“How are they doing?”

Deirdre let out a shout of alarm and spun around, fists raised, ready to fight. Iain took a step back behind her, eyes widened, hands raised, open in a placating gesture.

At the same time, James jerked up from sleep with a slurred, “Whazzgoin’ on?”

“You startled me!” Deirdre exclaimed, her hand on her heart. “You and your brother are too quiet!”

“What’s wrong?” James repeated, rubbing his eyes and slumping over.

“Nothing,” Iain answered him before looking back to Deirdre. “Are these—?”

“Well, I had to cook them!” She interrupted him, gesturing to the fire. “They taste much better that way. And you didn’t say anything about not lighting a fire in the morning!”

“Are those mushrooms?” James asked, sitting up a little straighter, wincing from stiffness. “What kind?”

“Horse mushrooms.” She looked at Iain as he sat down in front of the fire and continued, “They’re edible, I promise. I’ve had them a lot of times.”

“Yeah—” Iain started to reply but broke off with a yawn. He rubbed his eyes several times, as if there was something in them, and when he stopped, Deirdre noticed heavy bags under his eyes.

Too bad we don’t have tea, she thought as she sat back down, the fire between the two of them.

Deirdre insisted on trying the mushrooms first, just in case anything was wrong with them. But nothing seemed amiss, and Deirdre and Iain breakfasted in silence while James, after a few bites, started to ramble about the different types of edible fungi in England.

Iain ate slowly and was still finishing even as she and James began to pack their things up. He went back toward the tree he had been seated under and disappeared behind it; Deirdre assumed he had just left something. But as she began to kick dirt on the fire and put it out, she heard the distant but unmistakable sound of someone retching.

Her head snapped to James, but he was too busy reorganizing things in his bag to notice. She turned and hurried over to the tree, rounding it to find Iain leaning over, looking pale and slightly shaken as he wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

“Are you okay? Do you want any water?” Instinctively she reached over to lightly stroke his back, something sick girls back at the orphanage often found comforting when they were ill. But she stopped herself halfway, awkwardly drawing her hand back.

He shook his head and waved her away.

But she persisted, asking, “Do you have a cold? Or are you—” Her eyes widened, and her hands flew to her mouth. “The mushrooms! They were bad, weren’t they?”

Iain muttered something in reply, but she turned and ran around the tree and back over to James, shouting, “James, the mushrooms! How do you feel? Do you feel sick?”

He just looked up at her, mouth open. “What’s going on?”

“Iain threw up—I think some of the mushrooms were bad. How do you feel?”

Frowning, he said, “The mushrooms were fine.”

“So you don’t feel sick?”

“No.” James abruptly put down his pack, heading over toward Iain’s. “Let me see if he has any pills in here or whatever.”

Deirdre let out a small sigh of relief—anything was better than her accidentally serving them all poisonous mushrooms. As James began to rummage through Iain’s pack, practically shoving his head into it, she finished putting out the fire, making sure every last spark was out.

James held the pack up to his face, looking inside, sniffing. Then he tossed it down and zipped and buttoned it closed as it was before.

“Dammit,” he muttered, so low she barely heard him.

“No need to use language like that,” she scolded automatically. “Didn’t you find anything?”

He looked up at her, licking his lips, considering for a moment before scooting closer to her and whispering, “I could smell it. He had Pan in that bag.”

Deirdre blinked for a few moments, eventually coming up with, “Isn’t that the fruit drug that makes you really sick?”

James nodded, shooting a furious glare at the tree Iain was still behind. “That’s why he got sick. He must have had some.”

“This morning?”

He waved his hand impatiently. “This morning, last night, who knows? Maybe both.”

Deirdre tilted her head, mulling over the idea, brow furrowed. “Are you sure? Maybe you smell something else.” James was already shaking his head, but she continued, “I can’t see him doing anything like that. I mean, he’s a soldier! He’d know better.”

“It’s not a matter of knowing or not…” James hesitated, then continued in a lower voice, “A while ago, he got addicted—I think it was because of Elaine—and it was just… a really awful time.”

“Elaine?” Deirdre looked up, recalling the shifty-eyed, thin blond woman she’d met once in Neo-London. James had mentioned that she dealt in drugs back then but not any connection like this between her and Iain.

“Yeah. They were close, I guess.”

“But—but why would he use Pan?”

James shrugged. “He was looking after Dad and me all the time. I guess he got tired of it and wanted to forget about us—that’s what Pan does to you.”

“You ready?”

They both looked to see Iain slowly walking toward them, standing up straight but clearly with some effort.

James ignored him, sitting back by his own pack and resuming his reorganizing of its contents. Deirdre waited for James to say something about the Pan, but he stayed silent, apparently absorbed in refolding a pair of socks.

“We should be moving,” Iain prompted as he neared, shouldering his own pack. He looked at Deirdre. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah.” She hesitated, then asked, “Are you sure you don’t want any water?”

He shook his head. “I’m fine, really, but… thanks.”

Biting her lip, she glanced at James, willing for him to speak up; when he didn’t, she instead pressed, “You don’t look so good.”

Iain shrugged. “Just didn’t sleep much. It’s nothing you need to worry about.”

I don’t need to worry that he might be taking some sort of drug fruit? Seriously? She turned and grabbed her backpack, double-checking everything was zipped up before slipping it on. But if what James said is true, then he doesn’t have any more of it. But I can’t believe he’d ever eat it! I mean, I thought that he definitely cared about James, for sure. But he took Pan anyway, to escape from him? It doesn’t add up!

As they began to walk, James dragging his feet, Deirdre stayed behind Iain, glaring at him. I don’t know what to think—I don’t understand him. What’s going on in his head?

 

They walked mostly in silence all that morning, making slow progress and taking more five-minute breaks than they did yesterday. They stopped for a late lunch near a wide, deep, fast-running river, one of the new ones that had been carved into the land by faery activity after the bombing. And like all the new ones, it was clear and teeming with fish.

James was content with just eating packaged food again, but Deirdre pestered and wheedled him until he agreed to at least go and look in the river with her for fish.

“It’s not like we can catch them,” he whined as they walked over. “We don’t have any rods or bait or—”

“Nothing is impossible, James.” She beamed at him over her shoulder. “I’ve caught one or two with just a good blow with a rock!”

He didn’t reply except to mumble a few syllables; Deirdre got the feeling he didn’t believe her, but that just made her keener to prove him wrong. And get a fresh lunch, of course.

The river had several still areas that were perfect for waiting for the right prey; however, it took time, as always. She set her sights on and lost several fish. Just when Iain came over from the campsite, telling them to hurry, she finally managed to wallop a large pike on the head.

Water splashing, she pulled it out immediately; it was stunned but still alive.

“This is great!” She smiled widely at James, who was staring at the live fish with a mix of surprise and trepidation. “Now let’s cook it!”

He looked aghast. “Aren’t you going to kill it first?”

“No need. It’ll die soon enough. And the fresher, the better.”

He didn’t reply but locked eyes with the fish, suddenly looking a bit green.

“Do you like him, James?” Deirdre held the fish out toward him a bit, only for James to step back.

“I-I think I’ll stick with biscuits.”

“But he likes you!” She jerked the fish out toward him; it chose that moment to start wriggling, gasping, showing off its sharp teeth.

He backed away farther. “Don’t get it near me!”

Deirdre followed right after him, holding the fish out, demanding with a grin, “Why don’t you like him, James? Look at those big eyes! He wants to be your friend! Don’t ignore your friend!”

“That fish is not my friend!”

“But he loves you!”

James broke into a run, and they shot past Iain, who looked on with amusement as they raced in circles around the campsite. To Deirdre’s surprise, James was outpacing her.

So she jerked to a halt, holding the fish closer, making her expression alarmed and serious, and crying, “James, James! Something terrible just happened! I need to tell you!”

He jerked to a halt, alarmed by the urgency in her voice. “What? What’s wrong? Is it a faery?” He looked around, his eyes beginning to light up.

“James,” Deirdre whispered, walking closer. “You must… embrace your friendship!” And with those last three words she threw the squirming fish right into his arms, provoking a scream of surprise.

James dropped it like a hot potato and was shouting something, probably at her, but Deirdre was bowled over laughing, holding her sides.

Eventually James leaned down and met her eye. “Oh, so you like fish, huh?”

She looked up at him, gasping for air between laughs. “I—think they’re—lovely!”

The sly grin in his eyes warned her, but she wasn’t able to scramble away before he grabbed the flopping fish, ran forward, and thrust it into her hair, laughing. “How’s that for lovely?”

She screamed, pushing him away. “Not the hair! Not the hair!”

“Fish oil is good for your hair!”

“No it’s not!”

“Yes it is!”

“Is not!”

“Is too!”

By the time this was all over, the fish was inevitably dead. Deirdre cooked and ate it anyway while Iain and James stuck to the prepackaged food. For the rest of the afternoon, she and James chatted on and off as they passed from country fields to wide, well-used roads, beginning to pass houses and farms.

Twilight was falling as they reached the outskirts of the village, a small town with several thatch-roofed homes down a sloping road that turned from gravel to pavement. As they walked past the first few buildings, Deirdre thought just how normal this place looked, especially compared to Neo-London. There were no iron fences, no high walls, and no crowded streets. The occasional iron horseshoe was nailed above the brightly colored doorways of the houses, but she’d seen those often in the town near the orphanage.

She stretched out her arms and then rested them behind her head. “This is so much nicer than Neo-London!”

“There’s hardly anyone out.” James glanced around, only seeing a few cars parked along the road. “And nearly all the shop windows are dark. Is that normal? It’s not that late.”

Deirdre peered curiously through one of the glass windows, seeing only empty tables. The Union Jack was hanging at half-mast outside one of the buildings on a short pole, trembling in the gentle breeze.

“Is it normal to have that up like that?” she asked, pointing.

“They’re in mourning for King Eadred,” Iain said in a low voice.

Deirdre’s breath hitched as she remembered the parade. It had felt so lively and happy—making the death of the king and the accusations that she was somehow connected with it even harder to grasp.

She lowered her arms from behind her head, memories from that day flooding back—being imprisoned without warning overnight, her reckless escape, being shot at, and the fear that she’d be caught and thrown back in a cell again.

And if I was caught now… if Iain decided to turn me in… they’d probably put me in a cell with all iron bars.

Without realizing it, she began to trace her wrists where iron cuffs had burned her only a couple of days ago. While there were no scars or permanent damage, the pain seemed to float back for a moment.

She quickly and forcefully shook out her hands, trying to shake away the memory.

They continued in silence until they reached a small, old inn called Tabby Whiskers that was not closed; it had a smug-looking tabby cat sign hanging over the entrance that seemed to eye them as they walked under it. The smell of alcohol from the pub and the scent of fried potatoes from the kitchen greeted them as they entered, along with the buzzing voices of the radio that sat on the welcome desk.

A middle-aged woman with a tanned, lined face watched them from behind the front counter as they approached. Her gaze landed on Iain, and to Deirdre’s surprise, she tensed, her expression fearful.

“A soldier,” she said with obviously false cheer, managing a little laugh. “Been a lot passing through town these days.”

Deirdre, James, and Iain exchanged glances.

“There are more soldiers here?” James asked instantly, gawking. “Why?”

“Not here. Just round, more than normal. Haven’t seen ’em for a few days now though. Would you like to rent a room?” she asked, peering at the three of them. “Of course, your room will be free of charge, as the law requires.”

Deirdre’s mouth fell open in surprise, even as Iain said, “Two rooms,” and fished his wallet from his pack. Before Deirdre could protest, he had already put money down for the extra room.

The woman eyed the money but didn’t pick it up. “I also ask for a deposit on the one extra room.”

“Why is that?” Iain asked. “Doesn’t look like this place gets many of the rough crowd.”

The woman leaned over the counter and whispered, though loud enough for Deirdre to hear, “Well, I’ve had to add that rule ever since those bleeding hippie types started coming through here for the Wayfaring Festival—a strange crowd, they are! Some of them trash the rooms or fill them with smoke.”

“Wayfaring Festival? That… sounds familiar,” Iain said, his brow creasing.

“It’s a festival with music—if one can call that electric rubbish music—and food and…” She trailed off with a huff.

The woman slid two old-fashioned keys across the counter, one toward Iain and the other toward Deirdre. Before Deirdre could pick it up, Iain snatched it hurriedly.

Deirdre almost protested but then realized that both keys were probably iron.

That would have burned me, and then it would’ve told everyone here that I’m… not normal. She gulped, folding her hands tightly behind her back.

“The Iron Guard thanks you for your service.” Iain smiled at the innkeeper. He guided James and Deirdre toward the warped wooden steps that led up to the rooms on the second floor.

The woman scoffed, obviously thinking she was out of earshot, and said bitterly, “I’ll bet they do. Run my taps dry, drive away my customers. That’s some thanks for you.”

 

Their rooms were situated across from each other. The fading hallway wallpaper was patterned with staring tabby cats, and there was a fat stone cat statue right beside Deirdre’s door.

“Why would there be soldiers passing through here?” Deirdre asked, looking from James to Iain. “We haven’t seen any so far.”

“It sounded like they’d all moved on,” James suggested.

“We won’t be here long enough to find out,” Iain said firmly, handing the keys to James. “We’ll leave first thing tomorrow.”

James unlocked Deirdre’s door for her with the iron key.

When she went to turn the doorknob and push inside, something white-hot and sharp bit her hand. She cried out, flinching away from the door, backing up and accidentally tripping over the stone statue on the floor, letting out a yelp as her feet flew out from under her. She toppled over onto her back, hitting her head on the wall.

“Ow!” Deirdre hissed through her teeth, pushing herself up onto her elbows, seeing white spots. “What is wrong with this place? Iron keys, iron doorknobs! Are they going to have iron mattresses too?”

“Let’s keep it down, yeah?” Iain shushed her hastily.

Deirdre shot him a nasty look, sitting up and gingerly rubbing the back of her head.

James bent over and extended his hand to Deirdre to pull her up. She looked up and realized he was holding back a grin.

“Maybe—maybe your fortune should’ve said to beware of cats,” James offered helpfully, his mouth twitching as he struggled not to laugh. His face was nearly purple. He pointed to the cat statue that she had tripped over, and then he completely lost it.

For the first time since they’d met, Deirdre fancied punching James. Blood pounding in her ears, she clenched her fists, realizing a second too late that they were growing unnaturally hot.

There was an ear-splitting crack as the cat statue exploded at her feet, fragments showering everywhere. As plaster dust sprinkled down from the ceiling like some kind of moldy, asbestos-filled snow, Deirdre noticed the explosion had cracked a section of the wall beside it clear open.

No… Deirdre trembled, staring wide-eyed at the wreckage and beginning to slowly sit up. Not magic, not again…

She glanced over at Iain, who was dusting himself off, staring at her. James was backing away, wiping dust from his eyes.

She scrambled to her feet, hands over her mouth, unable to speak; her eyes were fixed on the rubble remains of the statue and the hole.

“Everyone all right?” Iain asked them.

James nodded. “I’m fine. What… what happened?”

“I-I didn’t mean to do it,” Deirdre sputtered, stepping forward, hands clasped. “I’m so sorry, James. I didn’t know that would happen! I just got so mad because that really hurt, and there was iron, and then you laughed—”

“You did this?” Iain cut in harshly, looking her in the eye.

“I didn’t mean to do it!” she protested, jabbing her finger at the hole in the wall. “Why would I do that on purpose?”

“How can you not mean to destroy something like that?” Iain asked her, clearly baffled, gesturing to the damage. “You could hurt someone if you’re not more careful. You could’ve hurt James.”

Guilt piercing her like a knife, she hung her head, gulping. He’s right. I could have hurt James or both of them. If I blew up that cat, I could have really, really hurt either of them… She shuddered at the thought.

“She can’t control it, Iain,” James said. “So back off.”

Iain’s voice was still firm. “This has happened before then?”

“Not exactly like this, but similar. Only it saved my life the last time she did it.”

Deirdre started at the loud sound of someone running heavily up the squeaking stairs, looking over only to see the innkeeper in the stairwell. She let out a shriek when she saw the damage done.

Deirdre bit her lip and looked down, shuffling away from the damage. Should I tell her? I should at least apologize—

“My”—Iain cleared his throat loudly—“my gun went off. Sorry about that.”

Deirdre looked up at him, her mouth falling open. Why is he covering for me? This was just my fault, not his—

“What? You’ve got a shotgun tucked away somewhere?” The innkeeper gaped at him. “This is England, and in England we don’t tout around our guns everywhere all careless like, do we?”

Iain shook his head. “No, madam.”

“And you’ll not be getting that deposit back!”

“Yes, madam.”

 

After the innkeeper trudged back downstairs and before any of the other guests could open their doors to see what the ruckus was about, Iain ushered James and Deirdre into the other, hole-free room.

Deirdre hastily sat down in a chair across from the bed, twisting her hands anxiously, wondering what to say. When she glanced up, she accidentally met Iain’s gaze; he was considering her, his expression serious, even grim.

Looking away, she thought, Well, I need to thank him for covering for me. But he’s right! I could have hurt somebody. But still, I hate it when he looks at me like that! It’s not like I’m doing this on purpose… but I guess that doesn’t matter to him, does it?

She thought back to the last time she’d sat across from him like this, as they left Neo-London after she’d killed the Fachan. The details of the conversation were a blur; she mostly remembered feeling unsure and defensive. But she did remember one thing clearly.

“I don’t want my brother getting hurt, by accident or otherwise.”

Letting out a deep sigh, she looked back up at him and said as calmly as she could, “Iain, I promise I would never hurt anyone on purpose or destroy property on purpose, for that matter.”

“At least you improved the décor around here somewhat,” James added weakly from his seat on the bed.

Iain stood, pacing once before leaning against the wall by the window. “Explain it to me.”

She tilted her head. “Huh?”

“Your magic… What do you even know about it?”

“Well, it started happening after I saw the fortune-teller—the banshee woman—that night in Ferrier’s Town. I felt so weird, and then when I got back to my dormitory, I snapped a stick in half.”

Iain said nothing, but after a moment raised his eyebrows, clearly expecting more explanation.

“Oh, I mean, I snapped a stick in half without touching it. See, I think the banshee… touching her somehow made my magic start popping up. Mother Superior said something like that might be the case: because she was so skilled with magic, it made mine start working. And also the next morning a tea mug shattered. And then I think I caused a hubcap to rust away, and the vehicle crashed—”

“Wait.” James sat up straighter. “You mean this happened before you used your magic at the faery ring? You didn’t tell me!”

She folded her arms. “I wasn’t really happy about it, okay? I didn’t know what was going on.”

“You caused a crash?” Iain asked.

“Sort of. The driver nearly clipped me he was driving so fast. He was fine though.” She bit her lip, looking aside. “I think.”

Iain narrowed his eyes, frowning. “What do all these events have in common?”

“I… I don’t know. I was upset.”

And my hands started burning and my heart beat really fast, but I don’t think sharing that would help, she thought with a small grin. It’s already confusing as it is…

“Her magic is why she needs to go to the Summer Court,” James chimed in, offering Deirdre a smile. “She needs to find her family so she can figure everything out.”

“So, basically,” Iain said slowly, as if thinking about each word he used, “you’re losing control of your magic when you’re upset.”

She blinked, then began to nod. “I guess so? I never thought about it that way. I guess that could be it.”

Iain was quiet, looking to the side, clearly mulling everything over. He looked a bit skeptical, as if he didn’t quite believe her.

After a quiet moment, Deirdre leaned forward to try to catch his gaze and asked, “I swear it’s not something I’m trying to do or want to do, so… you’re not going to turn me in, are you?”

Iain’s eyes widened, and for a brief moment he looked a bit stricken. But the moment passed and he replied, “No, I’m not going to turn you in.”

Deirdre leaned back in the chair, breathing out a long sigh of relief.

“When that monster attacked us, you used magic then too,” Iain said suddenly. “Did you lose control then?”

Deirdre scooted forward in her chair, tilting her head, thinking for a moment before replying, “No, I think that was different. It felt different. I was mad, but I didn’t want it to hurt James or you. I didn’t even want to hurt the Fachan. I just wanted it to leave us alone.”

Iain nodded slowly, his shoulders relaxing. “I’m… I’m very thankful for that, Deirdre,” he said in a low voice. “I don’t think I, um, said that.”

She blinked several times, unsure if she had heard him right. But then she decided she did and said, “Uh, you’re welcome. I mean, it was nothing! You paid for the room, and you covered for me with the innkeeper, so… thank you too.”

Iain folded his arms. “It’s, um, no problem,” he said quickly. “Just forget it.”

Is he cross or embarrassed? Deirdre looked away, frowning, thinking she’d never understand him.

James stretched out on his back on the bed. “And thanks to me for thinking to bring a map,” he said. “And thanks to me for bringing Mum’s letters, when you wanted to just toss them out with Marko—”

“Don’t push it, James.”

“I forgot you can only be nice once per year,” James said, grinning like one of the tabby cats on the walls, a bit harshly. “My mistake.”

Tense silence settled over them, broken when Iain spoke up. “James, why don’t you move our stuff to the other room?” He gestured to their bags strewn across the floor.

James glared at him. “Why should I?”

“I’m not going to ask a gal to stay in a room with a giant hole smashed through it. We should wash up before dinner, so get a move on.” He sniffed the air, making a somewhat exaggerated face. “Especially with you two and your fish hair.”

Deirdre giggled, and James protested about not smelling and how a fish that wasn’t dead yet didn’t technically have a fish smell.

“James,” Iain said, interrupting. “Bags?”

He glanced at Deirdre, then shot up to his feet. “Right, got it.” He began hoisting the packs over his shoulder with surprising vigor. He strained to lift them; he nearly lost his balance but quickly recovered it and headed out the door.

As James disappeared into the hall, Iain took a deep breath and turned to Deirdre. “Can I ask you something?”

She grinned. “Sure.”

“As far as I know, all faeries are Seelie or Unseelie. What about you? Which do you think you are?”

Deirdre stared at him for a long moment, her mouth slightly parted; this question had not occurred to her before now. “I, um…” She gulped, thinking. “I don’t know. I mean, Unseelies are evil and fight for the Winter Court, right? I’m not evil, so…” She giggled nervously, rubbing the back of her head. “I guess I’m Seelie then.”

“Right.” Iain stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Since you were told to go to the Summer Court, you must be at least part Seelie. I doubt they let Unseelies inside.”

“Huh. Can you be part Seelie or Unseelie?”

Iain shrugged. “Some things you say you’ve done don’t seem like a Seelie, but you can’t be entirely Unseelie either…” He trailed off, once again shrugging.

“Well, maybe it’s just because I didn’t grow up with my family,” she offered, feeling like she was grasping at straws. “Maybe that’s why I’m different?”

He didn’t respond but headed to the door. “We’ll go down and eat in about twenty minutes.”

“Right, okay.”

After he shut the door, she stood, trudged over to the bed, and plopped face down on it, suddenly feeling exhausted. Turning her head to one side, she sniffed several times, then opened her eyes.

My hair DOES smell like fish.