In Robin Hood's gang, every member had his own specialty. Robin himself planned their operations. Will built and maintained camp structures. Little John looked after the weapons. Allan assisted where he was called, sometimes more willingly than others, and taught them slight of hand tricks that proved repeatedly useful. And, of course, the duties of stocking the larder and keeping the gang fed had fallen on Much (to his distress, to hear him tell it, but Djaq had caught him singing over the stew kettle more than once).

Science and medicine had fallen to Djaq, which made sense to her, as had barber responsibilities, which did not. It all came, she supposed, of accepting a dull and battered pair of scissors as part of the ten percent "tax" for the poor they claimed off an itinerant barber one day. He'd claimed they had outlived their usefulness to him, but Djaq had always seen the potential left in seemingly worthless things. She'd carried them around for a while until one day they'd made a delivery to a blacksmith in Locksley Village and she'd had the opportunity to make a deal with him.

It was a far simpler and swifter operation to keep her hair trimmed short with the newly mended and sharpened implement than it had been in the days before it fell into her possession. Much was the first to comment on it.

"Not cutting your hair with a knife anymore, are you?" he asked, nodding at her one night over dinner. "Locksley blacksmith fixed up those scissors, I suppose. I expect it almost feels like you belong in proper society again," he said. "I don't suppose you'd be willing to let me give them a go."

The way he had of sounding defensive even before she had a chance to refuse him usually gave Djaq a perverse desire to do exactly that. "I cannot," she replied. "I don't trust you to handle such sensitive equipment."

Instead of blustering to Robin as she expected, though, Much shrugged. "Well, what about giving me a haircut, then?"

And because she was caught off guard, and because she didn't want Much to think she was always joking when she said things like that, she had done it.

"My turn next," Allan had said as he passed them. Then when Allan was getting his hair cut, Will came by, sat down, and waited so quietly and patiently that Djaq gave in before he asked, waving him over as Allan stood up and brushed hair from his shirt.

After that, it seemed assumed that Djaq would rather give haircuts than loan out her shears. Each time, she would roll her eyes and shake her head, but each time she was secretly thinking of another time, another place. Another Djaq whose hair she used to cut. Sometimes she was glad the men had to sit with their backs to her, when tears stung her eyes at the memory of touching her twin brother's head like this, ages and just minutes ago. In Will's dark hair, especially, her hands slowed and her scissors closed with extra tenderness. She was rather glad that Will preferred to keep his hair shorter than the others did.

Was it because they were Englishmen, or because they were these men, that they brought their personalities with them so strongly even out to the boulder that served as their makeshift barbershop? Robin chatted companionably, bouncing plan ideas off her and considering her responses. Will answered what questions she put to him, but otherwise seemed content to sit there in a silence which was companionable in its own way. Little John had a strong dislike of blades held by others at the back of his neck, and as she suspected the only reason he wasn't still trimming his own hair with a knife was because he didn't want her to think he didn't trust her, she took pity on him and always sent him on his way as quickly as possible. Allan told her stories of his past in which his role was so gloriously and obviously inflated that she usually laughed and was never quite sure of the effect her merriment had on his general appearance. And Much treated her as a confidant—no, more of a confessor, since the secrets he revealed from the boulder were never referred to elsewhere.

"I could try my hand at cutting your hair, if you like," he offered once, after a rather interesting story about a pair of bathtubs at the lodge at Bonchurch. "Turnabout, and all that."

But she only laughed. She would never ask or allow any of them to return the favor, choosing instead to head off on her own when she could feel the edges of her hair beginning to curl beneath her fingers.

"You do know it's not a secret anymore," Robin said one day, coming up behind her at her guard post. As usual, she was amazed he could move so quietly, and as usual, she commended herself for not giving him the satisfaction of startling.

"What isn't?"

He fidgeted with the ends of his hair. "You could shave it all off and it won't make the sheriff forget you're a woman."

She shrugged dismally.

"Don't get me wrong, you can wear it whatever way you want," he continued. "I've just been thinking, if you'd rather be a little more...Safiyya..."

"I prefer Djaq."

Robin raised his hands and leaned away, surrendering. "As you like. Doesn't matter to me either way."

She looked at him sharply. "No?" she asked, a shade too nonchalantly.

"It never has," he responded.

She stared quietly ahead. "In my country, women were not expected to follow the same path as men. Here..."

Robin laughed. "Oh, please don't tell Marian women have more freedom in England. She may just set off on a Crusade of her own."

"And many a Saracen woman would thank her for it," retorted Djaq. "But when I said 'here,' I did not mean England."

He nodded contemplatively. "You're one of us," he said. "No matter how you choose to look."

She had been wanting, ever since the rescue he hadn't headed up, to ask him if he hadn't planned it because she was a woman. She opened her mouth to ask, but found that suddenly it sounded like a ridiculous question with a ridiculously obvious answer. "So," she began instead, hesitantly, "you don't think, if I were to wear my hair longer...to stop hiding so much...the others, they wouldn't be..."

"Anyone in the gang you'd distract, you're already distracting."

"What do you mean?"

Robin gave her one of those "don't play stupid, it isn't working" grins he was so good at giving. Her own lips twitched upward despite herself.

"Maybe that could be useful someday," she offered. "Being a woman. For distraction."

"I'll keep that in mind," Robin said. "It'd be a nice option to have, since you're willing. Little John would make an awful scullery maid."

On their next trip into Nottingham Village, Djaq arranged for a new suit of clothes. And a dress or two. Just in case.

She was adjusting her new vest when Will showed up for his next haircut. True to form, he only nodded and took his seat on the boulder.

"Good morning," she said, wishing Allan or Much had been the first to see her this way. Either would've expressed his opinion immediately, broken the suspense she hadn't expected to feel.

"Morning."

His voice held no clues to his thoughts, and she found herself nervous, despite Robin's assurance that she would be one of the gang no matter how she chose to look. Her hands trembled as she brought the shears up. She took a deep, steadying breath.

"All right?" Will asked.

"Yes," she decided firmly, and began.

When she was finished, Will stood up and turned to her, nodding his thanks and running his hand over his newly cropped hair. His eyes darted to her head. "You've cut mine shorter than yours."

"I'm growing mine out a bit." She eyed his hair critically. Perhaps he was thinking it was too short. "Is it all right?"

He considered for a moment. "I like it."

"I meant yours," she said, on a hunch.

"Ah," he said, turning to leave. "So did I." His neck was flushed. "Thanks."

Djaq twirled her scissors and smiled. "Anytime," she called after him, suddenly confident that things could both change and stay the same, after all.

Besides, to keep hiding the one specialty she could never teach the rest of them would have been a waste of resources.