Page 57
“You’re welcome to my old fiancés, then. Take your pick.” Straight-faced, Andromeda toyed with her necklace, and Grace’s eyes went wide before she dissolved into laughter.
“You really are a Heartcrusher,” she said with a mix of awe and bewilderment, probably thinking about how she’d never, ever do anything so outrageous to Montrose.
Andromeda shrugged, opening the door to the little dress shop and waving Grace in ahead of her. “My heart is still whole.”
Unable to get a word in edgewise—and happy that Grace and Andromeda were getting along so well—Fia stepped into the shop behind them. She tried to forget about the horrible article and the ball they’d be crashing tomorrow and the looming curse, sinking into this small moment with her friends. In the shop’s soft light, surrounded by shelves of lovely fabric and mannequins draped in dresses of silk and tulle and satin, it felt like those problems were very far away.
“Oh, look at this one,” Grace said, trailing her fingers over a black gown much fancier than what she usually chose to wear.
Agatha Gately, the owner of the shop, approached them with a practiced smile on her perfectly made-up face, stitched with magical threads as surely as she stitched her dresses. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? You simply must try it on.” Gently, and wasting no time when hoping for a sale, she tugged the dress from its hanger.
“Where would you wear it?” Fia asked, looking at a simpler design that was more than likely still too expensive for her to consider.
“The masque!” Grace said. “I scrounged up an invitation for Montrose and me as a gift for his birthday. I know it’s an indulgence, but I’ve really been wanting to go.”
Fia grinned. “Does Montrose want to go?”
Caught out, Grace laughed. “Yes! I might just want to go more.”
“What’s the masque?” Andromeda’s voice traveled from the other side of the room, where she was lost among a billow of skirts.
Agatha pulled the lilac dress Fia had been admiring, then half a dozen more as Andromeda pointed her choices out one after another.
“The Masque of Parchment and Ink,” Grace explained. “It’s an annual All Hallows’ Eve gala at Thistledown where rare spellbooks are placed on silent auction.”
“Sounds like just your cup of tea,” Andromeda said as Agatha led her to another rack of dresses in shades of peach and rose and raspberry.
“It is.” Grace’s face clouded. “But I’ve heard they might postpone, or entirely cancel the masque, all because of that breach at Thistledown.”
Fia stiffened. “I—”
Grace rolled her eyes. “I know it’s not your doing.”
“They won’t cancel,” Andromeda confidently said. “Not if there’s coin to be made.”
“Lots. I can’t afford a single book on auction,” Grace said. “But I’ll be happy enough to just be in the same room and sneak a look at them.”
“Just like I’m looking at these dresses with no intention of buying,” Fia said under her breath so Agatha wouldn’t hear.
Grace laughed. “Me too. I already have a dress for the masque—this gorgeous old thing I found months ago at an estate sale—but I wanted to meet Andromeda and spend time with you. It seems like we’ve both been so busy lately, me with the shop and Montrose’s birthday, you with…”
All the things Fia did not want to think about, which Grace immediately seemed to recognize, letting her sentence trail off.
“Let’s head to the changing rooms, girls,” Agatha said, bustling toward them, her arms overflowing with ribbons and lace.
Andromeda came on her heels, a worrisome flicker of fatigue straining her eyes before she slotted her smile back into place. A reminder that the curse slithered under the surface, whether Fia wanted to think about it or not.
Fia worried her lip. Yesterday, she and Grace had tried on one gown each, then sat back in plush chairs, watching as Andromeda showed off one design after another. She’d sampled dozens, only to choose the very first she’d tried on. Fia had resisted the impulse to buy the lilac gown—due to the fact that she absolutely couldn’t afford it—but now, the night of the Bramble Ball, she was fretting over what to wear.
Pawing through her wardrobe, she slashed aside hanger after hanger, discarding all the dresses that felt so very much like her—the cornflower blue that matched her eyes, the saffron with those long, frilly sleeves, the crimson that reminded her of fallen leaves—and were not at all right for a ball.
Her hand paused on the gold dress she wore for holidays and year’s-end celebrations—any occasion that required something fancy and fine. It had ribbons around the waist and a layer of shimmery lace she’d always thought made it elegant, but looking at it now, all she could think was how it wasn’t Fantillian lace. How this was a dress and what she needed was a gown.
“Ridiculous,” she chided herself, yanking the frock out of the closet. It would do just fine.
If she dared fancy it up with a spell.
Fia tore off her nightgown and pulled the golden dress over her head. With much more hesitation, she turned to the mirror, remembering Elena’s story—how she’d gazed into a cursed mirror that no longer reflected her.
