Harrisford is staring. Brazenly, openly staring; he’s leaning slightly forward, one hand gripping the doorframe. The tendons are standing out on his hand, and his knuckles are the palest white.
“You look…” He trails off, reddens, then clears his throat.
Oh god. He can’t even say it. He can’t even articulate how ridiculous I look in such a fancy dress. My stomach clenches, feeling hollow. “It’s too much, isn’t it?” I clasp both cheeks with my hands. “Yes, you’re right, it’s too much—I’ll take it off.”
Harrisford moves into the room like a predator, forcing me to take two steps back. In the dim light of my desk lamp, his pupils are dilated—scorching his irises black. “No.” A command, not a request. “Leave it.”
I swallow, frozen under the force of his stare. He is…intimidating. And sexy. Intimidatingly sexy. He’s wearing a similar tuxedo robe to what he’d worn to the first gala, except this time his bow tie is plum, the exact color of my dress. Tonight, his blond hair is slickedback from his face; on anyone else it might look severe, but on him it just accentuates his model-sharp cheekbones, the intensity of his eyes, the perfect curve of his shell-pink lips…
It is so completely unfair. That he seems to have been dealt all the good cards right from the moment of birth. That such a beautiful exterior can mask such a shitty person beneath. That said beautiful exterior is having an effect on me that Ireallydon’t want it to have.
Realizing I’m gawking, I shut my mouth and tear my gaze away. Regardless of how striking he looks, I cannot forget that this man is actuallyblackmailingme, and threatening to get rid of my cat.
“I…uh…haven’t been able to do anything with my hair.” With a resigned sigh, I pull the hair tie out of my pitiful bun, and my hair falls loose around my shoulders. While I haven’t been to an event like this before, I’ve watched Heloise prepare for several. Her routine involves long sessions at the hairdresser’s, bespoke tailored formalwear, and professional makeup artists. I can’t believe I’m about to attend my very first gala with a crappy updo and a dress borrowed from a dead woman.
Harrisford’s eyes sweep up to my head. “Your hair is fine.”
My palms are sweating again, and now so are my armpits. “No, it’s a mess, and—” I pause, feeling slightly sick. Then, to myself, “I wish I knew how to cast a glamour.”
Reaching out, Harrisford takes a loose lock of my hair between his thumb and forefinger. For a long time, he doesn’t say anything, just stares at it, frowning. Then he drops it. “I can assure you, it really is unnecessary.”
Right. Harrisford doesn’t care what I look like tonight, even with my scruffy hair. I’m just a convenient way to help him investigate the surges so he can happily sit his exams.
The thing is, though, this isn’t Harrisford’s first gala. But itismine. And while he might not care, I do.
“I’ll just be a minute. I’m sure it’s dead easy.” Surely there’ll be a simple tutorial on the internet? I’ll just look up the method and then ask Percy if I can siphon some of his magic to do it.
I faff around, unlocking my strap. After finding what looks to be a promising website, I click into it, only to be hit with a paywall.
Goddammit. I used up most of my weekly magecredits buying Percy’s stupidly expensive (and as yet unused) bed. It was the dearest cardboard box I’ve ever purchased.
The next website too charges for its tutorials. The next is the same. And the next. And the next.
My hope deflates like a burst balloon. How ironic. Finally, I have enough magic to cast the glamour, but I can’t even afford to learn how to bloody do it.
Frazzled, I start mentally calculating whether I can budget enough magecredits for the download, when suddenly I become aware that Harrisford too is watching my strap.
My cheeks flush hot. I shut down my screen. “You know what? Never mind.”
“Chan.” Harrisford sighs, resigned, and I look up from my wrist. “You’re being absurd, obviously. But if you truly wish it, then I can cast the spell.”
My eyebrows knit. I’m suddenly curious. “Didn’t you say you don’t do them?”
For a long moment he doesn’t respond, he just stares at my face, scrutinizing me. Eventually he says, “I’m willing to make an exception.”
My mouth is dry; I swallow. I must look fucking terrible for him to willingly break his own rule. Oh well. It doesn’t matter, I guess, if it means he will actually do it.
Lifting his hands, he raises his eyebrows at me: an invitation. And although my stomach is threatening to crawl right up my throat, I nod my consent.
I study his features as he works, his eyes narrowed in concentration. “Doyouwear a glamour, Briggs?” It would make sense if he did—explain why he always looks so frustratingly perfect.
He snorts out a laugh, then shakes his head. “No. I don’t.”
Damn.There goes that theory.
I fall quiet. I’ve never worn a glamour before; mainly because I’ve never really had an occasion to wear one, but also because it uses magic that I’ve never had to spare. And as Harrisford casts his spell, I’m simultaneously nervous and excited. What am I going to look like, once the spell is done? Will I even recognize myself? Will I be disappointed with my features when, at the end of the evening, the magic finally wears off?
My face heats as the glamour penetrates, and I let my eyelids fall shut. When I feel that the spell has settled, I reopen my eyes and spin to face the mirror. And I look…
