Annie’s eyes narrowed appraisingly. “You know your history.”
Sophie flushed, her smile widening. How she loved discussing this sort of thing. She could wander through the history of the Crocodile Kingdom year by year if given half the chance. But even with all the time in the world, she knew it would never be enough, let alone the brief span of their appointment.
Annie caught Sophie’s gently simmering enthusiasm, smiled, and continued. “But here’s something you might not find in the history books. We Crocodilians have a large, centralized facility dedicated to processing hides.”
“Really? I didn’t know that,” Sophie replied, intrigued.
“No outsiders are allowed inside—to protect our unique methods. There, crocodiles are brought in from our farms and sometimes hunted from afar. They arrive alive, treated with utmost care to preserve their hides—just for the artisans to rip them off their bodies whilst alive. The crocodiles thrash and bellow in pain as their hides are stripped, but it can’t be helped. Living crocodiles produce far more desirable leather. A river runs beside the plant, its waters forever tinged red from the blood of those skinned alive.”
Sophie couldn’t say anything.
“When they finally fall still, we butcher them, using every part. Their flesh fills our tables, their hides bring wealth and renown—the prosperity of our kingdom flows from that river of blood. Crocodile flesh, blood, and skin—pain and suffering. That is the foundation of our kingdom’s legacy.”
With that macabre truth laid bare, Annie angled herself toward Sophie, presenting the full edge of her profile—and her sharp, sharp teeth. “So if this is the crocodile’s curse, then I bear it gladly. For no one is better suited to bear it than I, Annie Crocodile—heiress to the kingdom and all its transgressions.”
A fierce pride was in Annie’s bearing, a dignified devotion so intense it struck Sophie as breathtaking. “That is…incredibly noble of you.”
“Thank you. By the way, you’ve written in your flyer that this salon is to run free of charge for a year. Do you plan to reopen it as a paid establishment afterward?”
“That is my intention, yes, as long as I get the necessary approvals. How did you know?”
“You’re the daughter of a merchant. Who better to understand the value of compensation for a worthy service? And this is worthy. I saw what you did with Silver. To erase a tattoo that size? It’s miracle work. And he even told me you can remove scars.”
“I do believe so, yes.”
Annie’s eyes unfocused, gazing off into the distance. There was a sad crease on her brow. “In my country, many impoverished rely on crocodile hunting to survive. Rarely colored or patterned hides can’t be farmed, so we depend on hunters. A single prized hide can sustain a family for months. Every day, they flock to the river, hoping for a windfall.”
“Is that not dangerous work?”
Annie shook her head sadly. “None more so. Many lose their lives to the waters each year, and even more suffer horrific injuries. It’s a job for men, usually, but in the poorest families, even women are forced to join. For men, the scars from a crocodile bite are badges of honor, but for women…it’s different. Those with bite scars are called ‘crocodile refuse,’ marked as damaged, unworthy for marriage.”
“That is…horrible,” Sophie whispered. Cultures varied. Beliefs varied. And as an outsider, she knew it wasn’t her place to judge. But still, her heart broke for those women—no, those girls—bearing such disfiguring wounds, only to be shunned with a cruel name.
“Most can’t afford proper treatment,” Annie continued. “Unmarriageable, they’re left to scrape by however they can. But most artisans only take men as apprentices, so the work available to them is menial, trivial tasks that pay pittances—or grueling labor, hauling hides and meat. Some…resort to prostitution. There is a ridiculous superstition that, despite crocodile refuse being unfit to marry, spending a night with one will bring the blessing of a rare, colorful crocodile the next day.”
Sophie’s heart shattered. For these young, helpless women, already injured and scarred, yet enduring even more suffering under a society that offered them nothing but scorn and superstition. She bit down on a trembling lip and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief—a reaction Annie studied carefully.
“It’s an archaic, frozen mindset, one I long to shatter,” she said. “But the old men in my kingdom resist any change, clinging to tradition. It frustrates me beyond measure. Those women are not ‘refuse,’ they’re human beings. If no one has the will to change that, then I shall do so myself.”
Realizing Annie’s intent, Sophie’s eyes widened. She looked up at Annie, who met her gaze steadily.
“Yes,” Annie said. “That’s where you come in. When you’ve reopened your salon and I’ve ascended the throne, I want you to come to Crocodilia regularly. I’ve come to you today not just as a patient but as the queen-to-be to claim your future—so to speak.”
She licked her teeth menacingly. But Sophie tilted her head, bemused. “Claim me? Like I’m some rare, high-demand item? You’re my first client—I’m running a ghost salon here.”
Annie’s eyes glinted. “For now. But that will change soon enough. Surely, you know, as a woman, what the demand is for your gift. You will be touching countless lives. Fortunately, mana has its limits, or you’d be working around the clock to the end of your days. So yes, that’s why I’m here—to reserve your services for the future, Sophie.”
“Why not make full use of me now while my services are still free?”
“Because neither I nor my people are beggars. Every service must be given its due worth. A fair price is the best guarantor of a lasting relationship—wouldn’t you agree?”
Annie’s eyes conveyed it all—this was no joke, but something she felt very strongly about. Sophie sat up straight, sensing the gravity of the moment. “Very well. Would you prefer we set this arrangement down in writing?”
“That won’t be necessary. For now, I am no queen—just Annie.”
“In that case.” Sophie extended her pinkie finger.