The old woman loved to brush her charge’s hair, loved to run her hands through the thick strands after the boar bristle brush had done its job. And the girl had the most beautiful voice, high and light like a bird. She loved the little melancholy songs the girl would sing as she brushed. In her mind’s eye the hair was golden blonde and streaked with sunlight. The old woman sighed, perhaps one day the Queen would restore her sight and set her little bird free.