Before I have a chance to respond, Fallon slams the sample book shut and hands it, along with the piece of wool, to Mage Florel. “I think you should make her dress out of this,” she says decidedly, shooting me a wide grin. “In fact, I think you should make her whole wardrobe out of it.”
A sharp spike of resentment wells up inside me, my heart speeding up as I eye Fallon’s wand. “Wait,” I say, addressing Mage Florel directly. “I’d like to see the samples for myself.”
Fallon’s smile morphs into a half sneer. “Good heavens, Elloren.” She gestures around the room at the fabric surrounding us. “It’s all black.”
I meet her eyes. “I’d still like to see them for myself.” The room goes so quiet, one could hear the prick of a pin.
Fallon’s eyes bore down on me, and I actively resist being cowed by her. They’re mesmerizing, her eyes, striped as they are with alternating lines of light and dark green, the lighter green streaks so light they’re almost white. They make me think of icicles. Sharp as spears.
After a moment of tense deliberation, Mage Florel sets the book down on another raised table beside me. “Of course, dear,” she says, her eyes flicking toward Fallon warily. “Go ahead.”
I open the book, uncomfortably aware of Fallon’s icy glare. I flip through the fabric, a violet-black square of velvet momentarily catching my eye, soft as a baby hare.
“Oh...look at this,” I gasp, half forgetting about Fallon as I turn to the next sample, the black silk lighting up red and yellow around the folds as it moves. “It’s extraordinary.” I turn the fabric this way and that, tipping it toward the closest wall lantern to watch the colors change.
Mage Florel nods her head in satisfaction. “Ishkartan goldweave,” she says as she removes the swath and cradles it. “Brought in from the Eastern Desert. Flame-gold worked right into the weave. Very fine. Very rare.”
I look down at the scratchy brown wool of my tunic from home. It’s like trying to compare the finest violin with some coarsely carved instrument.
Mage Florel smiles at me. “You’ve lovely taste, Mage Gardner.”
I flip through the next samples and come to an abrupt stop as my eyes light on the loveliest one of all. Midnight black silk. Patterned with vines woven through so subtly you have to look carefully to make them out. But once you do...
I run my finger along the textured silk. “It’s so beautiful.”
“Salishen silk,” Mage Florel says reverently. “From the Salishen Isles. They’re master weavers, the Salish. True artists. And all of their embroidery is as exquisite as this.”
I glance up at her. “Do you think you could use this?”
“Of course, Mage Gardner,” she replies, obviously thrilled by my choice.
Fallon’s hand comes down on the fabric. “You can’t use this,” she says, her tone hard.
I blink up at her in resentful surprise. “Why?”
“Because,” she replies, her voice syrupy with condescension, “this is what my dress is being made of.”
“Ah, what a pity,” Mage Florel sighs. She pats my shoulder sympathetically. “I’ve others, Mage Gardner, don’t you fret. We’ll find something just as lovely for you...”
Heart racing, I put my own hand down firmly on the fabric sample, right next to Fallon’s. I meet Fallon’s stare and hold it. “No. I want this one.”
Everyone gapes at me.
Fallon leans in a fraction and bares her teeth. “You can’t have it.”
I try to ignore the slight trembling of my hand. “Oh, come now, Fallon,” I say as I gesture at the fabric around us, mimicking her sneering tone. “It’s all black. And I’m sure the cut will be different.” I look over at Mage Florel, whose eyes are as wide as everyone else’s. “Can you make sure it’s very different from hers?”
Fallon spits out a sound of contempt. “My dress isn’t being made here. I have my own dressmaker.”
“Well, then,” I tell her. “That simplifies things.” I turn to Mage Florel. “Can you make it for me in time? With this fabric?”
Mage Florel gives me an appraising look, her eyes darting toward Fallon as if weighing the options. She lifts her chin. “Why, yes, Mage Gardner. I think I can.” She smiles coldly at Fallon. “Why don’t you tell me what your dress is like, dear? I’ll make sure it’s quite different.”
I’m surprised and bolstered by Mage Florel’s support. But when I turn back toward Fallon, her grin startles me. It’s wide and malicious. She jerks her hand away from the fabric sample and seems pleased when I flinch. “I’m leaving,” she announces, keeping her eyes tight on mine.
Echo and Paige fly to her and try to placate her and convince her to stay.
I look away and flip through the samples, barely seeing the fabric. I know it’s a mistake to say more. But I think of her treatment of the little girl and can’t help myself.
“Don’t worry, Fallon,” I say, careful not to look at her, struggling to keep my voice even. “Maybe your tailor can make you another dress. In Gorthan wool. I hear it’s very much the style.”
I glance up at Fallon just in time to catch her look of pure, undisguised hostility. Her fist tight on her wand, Fallon stalks out and slams the door behind her.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Sparrow’s mouth twitching into a fleeting grin.
CHAPTER NINE
The Black Witch
“You look just like Carnissa Gardner. You’re perfect.”
Paige gushes as I stare at the stranger looking back at me from the full-length ornate mirror.
We’re in the luxurious bedroom Aunt Vyvian has given me, the crystalline doors and the sunroom’s windows propped open, a balmy ocean breeze wafting in on the night air, the white kittens tussling on my bed. I’ve met with Paige a number of times over the past few days, lunching with her and Aunt Vyvian twice in the city and shopping together once for shoes. I greatly prefer her company to both Echo’s and Fallon’s.
For the past hour, Mage Florel has been primping and painting me while Aunt Vyvian stands watch, arms crossed. My aunt directs Mage Florel with the seriousness of a master painter overseeing a work of vital importance, and before long, it seems as if I’m not really in the room. As if I’m staring at someone else, disbelief washing over me.
The messy hair I’ve never known what to do with now hangs past my shoulders, woven into intricate braids, my eyes rendered large and mysterious by heavy makeup. My eyebrows, which have been plucked and shaped, heighten the effect. My lips are now full and scarlet, my cheekbones accented with blush. It’s amazing—all of the unpleasant, sharp lines of my face transformed into a vision of powerful elegance. And that’s not all—my ears and neck are graced with gold-set emeralds, and the gown Mage Florel made for me...
It’s breathtaking. The subtly woven vines appear and disappear as the fabric moves, the shimmering tunic like a second skin flowing out over the underskirt.
My grandmother, more than any other woman, was the standard bearer of Gardnerian beauty. Known as “The Black Witch” by our enemies, she was one of the most powerful Gardnerian Mages ever. Intellectually brilliant, artistically gifted, stunningly beautiful and a ruthlessly effective commander of our military forces—she was all of these things.
And I don’t just resemble her. I’m her absolute spitting image.
“Yes,” Aunt Vyvian breathes, “that will do. I think our work here is finished, Heloise.” She gets up and smiles broadly. “Elloren, you will come down to the party in an hour’s time. Paige will escort you.” She turns to Paige. “Bring her down the central staircase. I want her to make an entrance.” My aunt pauses to take me in once more, then leaves with Mage Florel, the two women chatting amiably as they go.
I go back to staring at myself in the mirror, dumbstruck.
“You must be so proud,” Paige says reverently. “Your grandmother was such a great woman. You must have a calling to follow in her footsteps, Elloren, or else the Ancient One wouldn’t have blessed you with her looks. Wait until everyone sees you!”
*
I follow Paige through the winding hallways, populated only by the occasional, harried Urisk maid rushing past and deferentially ignoring us.