SIXTEEN
GWENNA
I spend Friday afternoon—myusual time with Emrys and Kingston—as promised: in the library, Lanz hovering at the edge of the shelves, gathering whatever texts I can find or think of, all the female saints and mystics and visionaries who ever bothered to write anything down, the figures I once upon a time thought I’d write an undergraduate thesis on.
How times have changed.
By the time I get back to our suite, Morgan’s already well into the throes of her preparation for the Candlemas Ball—clothes flung on couches, music blasting, little bottles that might be makeup or might be something else strewn everywhere—and she insists on helpingmeget ready, too.
Which…I’m not ungrateful for.
“Kaibought you all this?”
Morgan’s jaw is fully hanging open as she surveys my options.
“Don’t give him too much credit,” I say, smoothing my palm absently over one of the skirts. “Technically, I think the staff of Neiman Marcus selected them. And Luther underwrote the cost.”
“Mm.” Morgan pulls out a hanger and shakes the long train of a soft, amber-colored gown loose. “Well. He could have done worse.”
“I think thisishis worst,” I murmur.
I’m not stupid. I’ve long since realized his little shopping spree had little to do with me personally and everything to do with punishing his foster father for…something.
Kai likes to hit where it hurts.
Morgan’s dressed in white-gold, a one-shouldered gown with a long, heavy skirt and twinkling floral embroidery.
“Do you want my advice?” she says, eyeing me.
“That is why I brought you in here,” I say. “Why?”
She exhales hard. “Because I don’t think you’re going to like it. But…” She sweeps out one of the dresses: a deep purple in some kind of soft, shiny fabric—silk, I suppose—with a bodice that gathers together in elegant waves of material towards the neck for a high halter.
And no sleeves.
“Wait, wait, wait,” Morgan says as my stomach drops. “Hear me out. Because…”
She drapes the purple gown gently over my loveseat and clip-clops out of the room, returning with something long, thin, and black.
“Gloves,” she explains, proffering them. “Over-the-elbow.”
I press my lips together. Thinking.
I don’t want to go to this at all. But the high neck will hide the cross-shaped scar over my heart. And with the gloves…
I lean over and rub the material between my thumb and forefinger.
“Why this one?” I ask Morgan.
“Symbolism,” she says simply. “The power of the color.”
“So, what, I wear this and I can fly?”
“No.” Morgan sighs. “Purple is the color of synthesis. The fusion of red blood and blue intellect. Integration after ordeal.”
That…does sound good.
Thematically appropriate, even.
