"Bitch, bitch, bitch!" Straw shouted to herself as she sat inside Lady Diane's salon.
The word slipped out before she could stop it. Her voice bounced off the walls, loud enough to make scissors pause midair and combs freeze against hair. Every customer in the salon turned to stare at her. Some stared openly. Others tried not to, eyes flicking away too late to pretend innocence. A woman under a chaperon widened her eyes. Another pressed her lips together as if trying not to laugh. Someone coughed, awkward and unnecessary.
Straw crossed her arms and leaned back in the chair, jaw tight, leg bouncing. Her anger sat too close to the surface. She could feel it in her chest, in the way her fingers curled into her sleeves.
Diane noticed immediately. She left the customer she was attending to and walked toward Straw, her steps calm but alert, like someone approaching a startled animal.
"What is wrong, my lady? Is something bothering you?" Diane asked in a low, concerned voice.
