Pearl Barley stumbled and squealed. She had the oddest sensation of being pulled back in two places: her head and her arm.
The Deacon moved alongside her. ‘Don’t cross over until you’re covered.’
‘Too bloody right, girl,’ said her hair which was tugging hard at her scalp, rather as if a strong gale had singled it out with a particularly strong gust.
The Deacon’s voice took on a disappointed tone. ‘Normally I would ask you to de-charm yourself before coming on a job but since your hair’s self preservation instincts have saved you from some rather nasty burns and itself from unsightly singeing I will save my comments for another occasion…’
‘I told you, you needed…’
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