he’s breaking up with you because Selkies don’t date changelings—”
“That wasn’t his fault!” I protested.
“—the next, he’s married, and now he’s single and suddenly he’s all over you again? I don’t want to see you get hurt, Toby.”
“Stacy . . .”
“It just seems like a lot of things ‘weren’t his fault.’ ” She gave my hair a hard tug. I winced. “Hold still while I pin this.”
“Yes, boss,” I muttered.
Her fingers tugged and darted, grabbing loops of hair and pinning them in place. Finally, she patted my shoulder. “Okay. We’re done.”
“Yippee.” I stood, rolling my head to ease the stiffness in my neck. Then I took a good look at my reflection and stopped, blinking.
My makeup was subtle, simple, and somehow perfect, calling attention to my best features while playing down my worst ones. My hair was pinned in sleek curls, held back with carved ash pins. The curls moved naturally when I turned my head, but fell right back to their original positions, not a hair going out of place.
“It should hold as long as you don’t get in a fight.” Stacy appeared behind me in the mirror, smiling. “I assume you won’t get in a fight?”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Good. Do you like it?”
“I do.” I risked a nod. Again, my hair moved without becoming disheveled. That was nothing short of a miracle.
“Even better. It should stay intact until morning, as long as you don’t get it wet.”
“No fights and no skinny-dipping; check.” I turned to face her. “Now, since my fashion sense clearly isn’t acceptable, where’s that dress?”
“I thought you’d never ask.” Stacy’s smile turned impish. “May, we’re ready!”
The bedroom door swung open and May stepped inside, something black draped across her arms. “Hey, Toby. Wow, Stacy, you made her look like a real girl.” With a wink, she added, “That means I like your hair.”
“I got that,” I said, eyeing the fabric she was holding. “Please tell me there’s more dress there than I think there is.”
She thrust her arms out toward me. “Luna said you’d say that. She told me to remind you that part of the purpose of a diplomatic event is looking impressive, which you can’t do in any of the things you pretend are fashionable. Now get dressed.”
“I . . .”
“Get dressed.”
I know when I’m beat. I sighed, and took the dress. It was light enough to seem weightless. I paused, frowning. “Is this spider silk?”
“Yes.”
Spider silk is rare, even by Faerie standards. It’s also unbelievably expensive. Most of it is purchased by purebloods, to wear to events like this one. The lower classes can get away with attending formal events in everyday clothes masked by illusion; members of the nobility are expected to hold themselves to a higher standard, even if they have to sell the farm to do it. People can tell when you’re wearing the real thing and not an illusion—at least, that’s what my mother always said. She lied about a lot of things, but I’ve never had reason to doubt her in the arenas of diplomacy or fashion.
Aware that I was holding a baronial fortune in my arms, I gave the dress a careful look. It looked black at first glance, but shimmered with patches of gold and silver when the light hit it. The colors shifted seamlessly, and the effect was dismayingly reminiscent of moonlight moving across calico scales.
“Try it,” said May, snapping me out of my contemplation. I raised my head, cocking an eyebrow. She met my eyes without hesitation. “It was Amandine’s.”
I stared at her.
May offered a small smile. “Raiding your mom’s closet is a time-honored tradition, right? Come on, Stacy.” She turned, stepping out of the room, with Stacy right behind her.
“We’ll be in the living room,” said Stacy, and closed the door.
“Right,” I said, to the empty room.
The idea of Luna raiding Amandine’s closet was new and unsettling. Mother’s tower has never needed much in the way of security—it’s self-aware enough to keep out anyone who hasn’t been explicitly invited. As far as I knew, neither Mother nor I ever gave Luna permission to go inside. Oh, well. There’d be time to worry about that later, after we survived the night.
I shrugged off my robe, pulled on a pair of panties, and stepped into the dress. It was sleeveless, with a straight-cut neckline that came straight out of the 1950s. It was also several sizes too big, hanging around me like a tent.
That was easily fixed. I held the dress up with one hand as I reached behind me with the other, gathering the fabric against the small of my back. The spider silk writhed like a living thing as the dress tightened around me, becoming form-fitting to the point of being practically painted on. There are
“Better,” I said, letting go and turning to look at my reflection.
One of the nice things about spider silk is the way it conforms to the lines of the body. The dress fit like it was made for me, outlining every curve I have, and a few I hadn’t been entirely aware of. The straight-cut neckline somehow managed to be flattering, largely, I think, because the top was tight enough to make a bra an unnecessary extravagance. The skirt was knee-length and gently pleated. It was a good cut for me, classic yet easy to move in, and it called attention to my legs. I have nice legs, probably because of all the running away I do. All my scars were visible, but I’m a knight. Scars are part of the job.
Depending on how I wanted to look at it, I either looked fantastic or like a little kid playing dress-up with Mommy’s clothes. I was definitely voting the second. I’ve been an adult for a long time, but this . . . this wasn’t me.
“Hey, Toby. You decent?” May didn’t wait for me to answer before opening the bedroom door. She froze, eyebrows going up. Then she whistled low, saying, “
“Stop that!” I hissed.
“No,” said May, laughing. She tossed me a mesh bag. I caught it one-handed. “Put these on. And for the love of Oberon, lose the scowl. You look like you just bit into a lemon.”
She slammed the door behind her as she left the room, still laughing. I glared at the place where she’d been standing for a moment before dumping the bag’s contents out on the bed. It proved to hold a pair of low-slung black silk heels with ankle straps, my old footwear nemesis. I sighed as I picked them up. At least I wouldn’t lose them if I had to make a run for it. There was also a black spider silk choker with an oval moonstone pendant the size of my thumbnail, and matching earrings—no surprise there.
I put everything on and turned to give myself another long look in the mirror, trying to swallow past the lump in my throat. Taken all together, the outfit worked some strange illusion that had nothing to do with magic, playing down my mortal features, playing up my resemblance to my mother, and making me look like what the Queen’s Court wanted me to be. I didn’t look like the girl who worked for Devin, earned her knighthood almost by accident, and once tried to ditch Faerie. I looked noble. I looked like I belonged.
I looked like the Countess of Goldengreen.
I took a deep breath to steady myself. I could do this. I could go out there and face the Queen’s Court and play the part the Luidaeg and Goldengreen needed me to play. I owed it to the people who’d somehow become my subjects.
“Toby? May said to see if you were—” Connor stepped into the room, freezing in mid-step when he saw me. I guess I presented a startling picture, especially considering my customary cotton-and-denim chic.
“Yeah?” I asked, forcing a twist of a smile.
“You look . . .”
I had to forcibly restrain the urge to rake my hands through my hair. “I know. Sucks, don’t it?”
