“Pleasant,” Enne muttered.
“I still resent this. I want you to know that.”
Enne rolled her eyes and unscrewed the bottle of eyedrops. “You can’t keep your white hair. You look like a killer.”
“That’s why I liked it.”
Enne cringed as the cold liquid touched her eye. The redness still looked no better.
Lola turned off the water and drew back the curtain. She looked gangly and awkward in Enne’s short towel, her newly red hair plastered across her shoulders and dripping on the floor.
Despite Lola’s jokes, Enne knew her old hair meant far more to her than just the intimidation factor. Lola had originally bleached it because her brother had joined the Doves, and white hair was their trademark. Years had passed since then, but she still kindled the hope of finding him. And though her disguise had gotten her nowhere but trouble—which Lola herself acknowledged—Enne knew it couldn’t have been easy to let her past go.
Lola glanced at herself in the mirror. “Wow. I hate it.”
“You can’t keep looking like a Dove,” Enne told her. “Not when we’re supposed to...”
Enne trailed off and bit her lip. She’d recounted her conversation with Vianca to Lola earlier, and Lola hadn’t taken it well. Since then, all she’d done was order them the most expensive room service on St. Morse’s menu and pick at her food in stony silence. Enne had waited for her to say something—anything—all day, but Lola’s cold shoulder treatment meant Enne just wound up reading one of her favorite Sadie Knightley romance novels and brooding for six hours.
When Lola didn’t respond and walked back to the bedroom to change, Enne jumped off the counter and called after her, “Are we going to talk about this?”
Lola whipped around. “Talk about what, Enne?” Still clutching her towel, she marched over to the bags of clothes from Enne’s shopping trip. She grabbed the top item—a simple blouse with a lacy collar. “What are you supposed to wear? This?” Lola threw the shirt on the couch. “What are you supposed to say? With your posh, South Sider accent?”
She stormed back to Enne and loomed over her. “You’re going to march into the Orphan Guild and...andwhat? No one there went to finishing school. They’re thieves and killers and liars, and all you look like is a target. Bryce Balfour will eat you alive.”
Enne blinked back tears. She’d already made the decision not to apologize for who she was, and besides, there was nothing Lola said that Enne hadn’t already considered herself. She didn’t know anything about organized crime, how she’d find the volts to pay for associates, how she’d ever convince anyone to follow a clueless schoolgirl from Bellamy. It didn’t matter that the world thought she’d assassinated the Chancellor. Within minutes of meeting her, anyone would know she was a fraud.
“I thought you wanted this! Isn’t that what you said at Scrap Market? That I could be a—”
“That was before I knew about you and Vianca.”
“So did you mean anything that you said about me, then?” Enne asked, her voice shaking. Lola once saw a potential in her when no one else did, but it seemed like now she only saw her as a pawn.
Lola crossed her arms and looked away. “Of course I meant what I said. You’re aMizer, Enne. And the world doesn’t know that—the worldcan’tknow that—but regardless of Vianca, you have real power. And you don’t want it. That’s what makes you different from the other lords, different from everyone in New Reynes. You don’t want it, and so, maybe, you could dogoodwith it.”
Enne went silent. Of course, Lola was right. Enne didn’t want this, hadn’t asked for this.
“You...” Enne said carefully. “You think I can do this?”
“I wouldn’t be here if I thought otherwise.”
Lola was bony and uncomfortably wet, but Enne threw her arms around her, anyway. “Thank you,” she whispered, her mind whirling with Lola’s words.
Didshe have real power?
And if so, what could she do with it?
“You’re welcome. Now please let go of me.” Lola writhed out of Enne’s grip, smirking. “I’m going to get dressed, and then we can talk about making an appointment with the Guildmaster.”
The telephone rang.
Enne froze. Only two people would have any reason to call her: Vianca or Levi. She moved to answer it and prayed it was the latter.
“’Lo?” whispered the voice on the other line.
Enne sucked in her breath. “It’s you. Are you all right? Are you safe?” she asked.
“Have you heard the news?” Levi asked.
