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“Yes,” I say. “But not the kind you mean.”

Mercy’s eyes sharpen with understanding.

Bitter coughs. “I got gate.”

“Run along, then. Try not to threaten any paying customers before noon.”

“No promises.”

He looks at me once before he leaves, that almost-touch without touching, then walks away.

Mercy waits until the door closes. “I like him better uncomfortable.”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

“Bitter. Comfortable Bitter is a menace to women and furniture. Uncomfortable Bitter thinks before he moves.”

“That sounds promising.”

“It ain’t. Thinking makes him meaner when he gets scared.”

Something in her tone catches me. “Scared of what?”

Mercy turns back toward the workstations. “Ask him when he learns enough courage to answer.”

Which is apparently Mercy for none of your business.

Fair enough.

She puts me back at the restoration station from yesterday. The practice face still has the repair I made, but this morning Mercy has added discoloration around one eye and a second wax line near the temple.

“You ruined my work.”

“It survived one day. Don’t get sentimental.”

“I was proud of that cheek.”

“Then earn another one.”

She hands me gloves, and I pull them on.

For the next hour, I forget Razor. Not completely. Fear does not disappear because you found work you love. It waits somewhere nearby and taps its foot, but my hands get busy.

Mercy makes me mix undertones again without telling me which jar to use. I get one wrong and she makes me start over. I smooth wax with the palette knife she gave me yesterday, feathering the edges until the line nearly disappears.

Junie watches over my shoulder.

“Damn.”

I glance at her. “Good damn or funeral damn?”

“Good damn.”

Mercy looks offended. “We do not grade in damns.”

Lark passes behind us. “I got through high school that way.”

“Explains plenty.”