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As soon as we entered and the bell above the door tinkles, a pixie Fae comes out from the back room carrying an armful of buttery-gold silk. Glasses perch on his nose, his skin a light shade of moss.
He takes one look at our human features, frowns, and says, “Can I help you?”
Before I can utter a word, Ruby rises above us, arms crossed over her chest. “You are looking at the shadow of the Winter Prince. Show some respect, pix.”
The Pixie pushes up his glasses to study me. I lift my eyebrows. I’ll never get used to the shrewd way the Fae stare. Whatever he finds, it must be passable because he snaps his fingers and a swarm of sprites descend with measuring tape.
“I know the perfect color for you,” he says, leading us into a private room. A sprite with clear wings flies over and offers us the Fae version of champagne from a vineyard in the Winter Court territories.
Mack takes one of the bubbling flutes, and when Evelyn waves hers away, mumbling about suddenly not feeling well, Mack snatches Evelyn’s as well.
“Do you have any food here?” Evelyn asks. “I’m really hungry. I think that’s why I have such a headache.”
As the sprite flutters off to find Evelyn some crackers, I stare at Evelyn and try not to frown. She’s been quiet the last couple of days. I think, despite her assurances to the contrary, that she’s worried about finals. She didn’t even comment when I casually mentioned the prince offered to buy me a dress.
I push the thought aside and down a swallow of the sweet, fizzy drink. Then I set the glass champagne flute on a metal side table and hold out my arms. I’m actually relieved to have someone make all the decisions for me. I wouldn’t have the first clue about picking a dress, or what colors flatter my skin tone; I’ve always worn whatever was available.
When all my measurements are taken, the pixie brings over a fold of fabric. I stare at the amethyst-purple silk. “I’m not sure—”
My words trail away the moment he brings the material up to my face and I catch my reflection in the mirror. A gasp tumbles from my lips. The color brings out the gold in my hazel eyes and makes my skin look radiant. Mack and Evelyn murmur their approval, and then Mack holds out her two drinks and clinks them together.
“To kicking this fancy ball’s ass,” Mack says.
“I’ll drink to that,” I mutter, finishing my glass.
Ruby waggles her eyebrows. “The prince won’t know what hit him.”
48
I hang my dress on the closet door and stare at it, afraid if I blink, it will disappear. Or perhaps the magic used to meld all the pieces into a seamless gown will fade away and the dress will fall apart.
Mack sighs. “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anything so beautiful.” She sinks her teeth into her lower lip. “Summer, you’ll be careful, won’t you?”
“Careful?” I laugh, not sure where’s she going with this. ’m already accustomed to magic and its many, many conveniences. We can set the temperature in our dorm just by telling the magical fire what degree we want the room kept, we can find our place in the academy books just by saying, “nerum lantius,” which means find last page read.
And today, in the commons, I discovered a magical coffee mug that fills to the brim with hot, delicious lattes whenever I ask.
I’m a little annoyed that it took me this long to find that party trick, but, yeah, magic has lost its wowing abilities. On the other hand, the Upper East Side of Manhattan is blowing my mind.
I tug on the hem of my tight blouse, trying to pull it down to cover my navel. “He was wearing livery, for Fae’s sake!”
The charm on her bracelet was supposed to take us into the lobby of her apartment, but apparently it needs tweaking because it spat us onto the street outside the Gothic skyscraper.
She sighs as we enter an elevator with an operator—because rich people can’t punch their own buttons, apparently. The operator hardly glances at the two sprites fluttering about our heads.
He must see this stuff all the time.
According to Mack, this building was one of the first to allow integration, and they have a least twelve Fae families who split their time between here and Everwilde.
Just like the footman, the operator gives Mack a curt nod. “Penthouse floor, Miss Fairchild?”
“Yes, please, Mr. Phillips,” Mack says before throwing me a sheepish grin. “What?”
The Penthouse? I mouth.
She shrugs. “Go big or go home, right?”
Mr. Phillips—an older gentleman with a gray handlebar mustache—and I exchange a look. The kind of look between two people who will never own an apartment in any floor of this building.
