and gray skin-watched impassively. Her hair was a brilliant pink that could not be natural. It reminded Myrin of her own blue hair, which she pawed at idly.
'Ninea,' said Cellica, tugging at Myrin's arm and pointing to the half-ore. 'Just watch.'
One of the customers framed a request to Ninea the half-ore, who touched the woman's shoulder briefly. The effect was as sudden as it was impressive: the woman's skin took on a brilliant golden sheen, astonishing her companion, who gasped and broke into tittering.
'Gods!' Myrin said. 'That's amazing!'
'Simple magic,' Cellica said. 'Ninea has a spellscar that lets her alter colors to match her whims. Temporarily, of course.' She continued breezing through gowns. 'Certainly you could find cheaper attire elsewhere, but the quality is hard to defeat.' She selected her tenth and eleventh. 'Perhaps it's goodness rewarding the same.'
'Aye?' Myrin hadn't selected a gown-she was remembering Kalen's glare.
'Aye,' Cellica affirmed, taking down her twelfth. 'Lady Ilira's a patron of the Haven of the Scarred, for those run afoul of spellplague or other magical maladies-a consortium of priests and healers. I'm a member.'
The halfling frowned at a conservative brown gown Myrin was looking at and led her away. 'It'll be a costume revel,' she said. 'Most of these are a particular lady from history-that one must be a Candlekeep ascetic. Boring as old rat tails!'
'What?' Myrin was standing shyly to the side, grasping her right elbow behind her back and burrowing her left foot into the floorboards.
'Pay it no mind, dear,' said Cellica. 'Let's find another that suits you better.'
'Oh?' Myrin behaved around the finery the way a mouse must in a hall full of cat statues. She was terrified she would perish under the assault of silk. 'Can… can we afford this?'
'Of course! We halflings have a way with coin. Just none of the priciest, eh? Ooh!' Her eye fell on a rich cloth-of-silver gown. She spoke with a halfling attendant in a language Myrin didn't understand, winced, then nodded. The gown went into the attendant's already full arms.
The half-ore woman with the bright pink hair brushed past Myrin. While the attendant was dexterous enough, Myrin's inherent clumsiness almost knocked her over. The half-ore had to catch her by the hand and ward her off. Ninea's hand sparked against hers. 'Ooh, sorry!' Myrin said.
The woman started to respond, then shook her head, seeming faint.
'Ninea?' asked the halfling attending Cellica and Myrin. 'Be ye well, lass?'
'Aye,' said the half-ore. Her hair, Myrin saw, was fading from its sharp pink to a dirty brown. 'Just weary, methinks.'
'Well, ask Ilira if you can go early, aye?' Cellica's voice carried a touch of compulsion.
'Aye.' Ninea gave Myrin a curious look. 'Aye, I'll do that.'
The half-ore wandered to the back of the salon, looking ill.
Hesitantly, Myrin selected three gowns-a gentle, deep blue affair with gold trim, a conservative green with silver chasing at the bodice, and a sleek black garment. She didn't particularly want any of them. She pulled Kalen's worn runic tighter about her body. She liked how it smelled-it felt like Kalen was embracing her. Why did he have to be so handsome?
Stop it, girl, she thought. You don't even know who you are. You shouldn't worry about men-particularly ones who hate you!
She hoped Kalen didn't hate her, after what she'd doneaccidentally-to Fayne.
But what had she done?
NINETEEN
As they made their way to the mirror-walled fitting room, Myrin spotted Ninea near the back of the Menagerie. The woman she spoke ro was slim and elegant and beautiful, with long midnight hair and delicate pointed ears. An elf, Myrin thought, but there was something
… otherworldly about her. Looking at her made it hard to breathe.
'Lady Ilira herself,' Cellica said, poking her head around Myrin's waist. 'Aye-you're thinking she can't be mortal. She's an eladrin, lass-they're all like that.'
'Eladrin?' Myrin frowned. She'd never heard this word before.
Cellica shrugged. 'High elves, eladrin, all the same to me.' She took Myrin's arm. 'Come-you'll see her again at the ball, of course.'
'She's coming?' Myrin hadn't thought there might be nobles there, but of course there would be. Good thing she would be in costume, otherwise she'd be too afraid to show her common face. Around such a creature as Lady Ilira, she would feel even worse.
'Every year!' Cellica said. 'It's a tradition.'
Myrin blinked then hurried to follow. She felt self-conscious trying on the gowns with the aid of an attendant, but the way Cellica casually flung clothes around made her relax. The attendants measured them, then waited for a decision. The dresses would be altered later, to be picked up in time for the revel.
'The dance between Ilira and Lorien is traditional,' Cellica said. 'Every year, she and Lady Lorien dance at the height of the ball. No two ladies are closer friends than that pair, and-so the gossip says-it's more than that.' She tossed a slinky green gown over her shoulder, and the attendant barely caught it. 'But never we lesser mortals mind.'
Myrin blushed, though she couldn't say why.
'And who… who will Lady Ilira dress as?' Myrin asked. If she stood on her toes, she could just see the elf woman over the mirrors, surveying her salon.
'Probably no one.' Cellica shook her head. 'She always wears black, and lots of it,' she said. 'Dull, I know, but she's so elegant.' She leaned in close to Myrin. 'Some say she does it in mourning for a lost love, but I rather think it's to hide something. Unsightly tattoos or scars or the like. Some say she has one on her back-and that's why she never wears her own backless gowns-though I think there's a reason she always wears long gloves, let me tell you.'
'How do you know all this?' Myrin asked.
'One of us has to keep up with the news in the city, and gods-know Sir Shadow isn't going to do it.' Cellica shrugged into a silver gown and admired herself. 'And I like gossip.'
Myrin smiled and looked at her feet-thinking of Kalen.
The attendant returned with a woven basket in which lay two gowns. 'If you would be pleased,' she said, 'the lady suggests you try these.'
Cellica frowned at the gowns. 'Who-?'
'Lady Ilira,' said the attendant. 'She saw you in the Menagerie and thought these colors and styles might serve. Fitted per your measurements. Perhaps… a happy coincidence?'
Curious, Myrin looked across the room. Lady Ilira was gone. She seemed to have vanished into the shadows. It gave her a chill.
'Ye gods.' Cellica held up a scarlet gown, human-sized. She eyed Myrin devilishly.
'I don'r think-' Myrin started, but Cellica wouldn't accept such an answer. She disrobed timidly while Cellica drew on a gold gown.
Myrin had to admit the red dress looked fine. It was sleek, it was daring, and ir was bright without being gaudy. And the cut was perfect-it hugged her waiflike curves in a way that was not at all waiflike, but neither was it loose. She almost thought she looked pretty.
'Perfect for your skin!' Cellica nodded.
Myrin looked at her shimmering skin in the mirrors. In the soft lighting of the salon, it glowed a deep tan like polished betel wood. She blushed.
'The blue doesn't really serve,' said Cellica. She srood on a stool, straining up to finger Myrin's shoulder- lengrh hair. Myrin flushed and tried to look away from the mirror, only to remember she was surrounded by mirrors. 'It's a lovely blue, and all, but it's.. blue.'
Myrin's insides tingled. 'What… what would serve?'
