“We’re not doing this halfway, okay?” I say at last, shivering even under my scarf. “If this is what it takes, this is what it takes. Right?” I glance at Morgan, whose arms are folded, expression hard.
“Every Sunday,” she says, slow and deadly. “All ofyoushow up in the chapel with your shoes shined, your shirts pressed, and your ties tied. Your priests come in with their collars and their robes and theirgold jeweleryaround their necks. Isthata fashion show?”
Kai rolls his eyes. “Come on. That’s?—”
“No,” Morgan answers for them, eyes flashing. “No, of course not. It’s about respect. It’s about dignity. It’s about sanctifying the practice, about reverence for the tradition, and…and if you can’t do that, then I don’t know why I’m even bothering to?—”
“Morgan.” I grab her upper arm, half-worried she’s doing to lean back and deck one of them. When she doesn’t, I look at the four of them. “Guys. Please.”
No one speaks. I let Morgan go, and she exhales hard, composing herself.
“Look,” she says, tone more even now. “King. Kai. Everyone. I’m just trying to give you an outside chance, here. You can do this properly and respectfully andmaybeget her attention, or you…show up sloppy, get ignored, and nothing changes. Isthatwhat you want?”
“No.” I answer before any of them can. I take a deep breath, nod, and shuck off my coat. “Let’s just get it over with.”
It’s strange, peeling off all your clothes in the middle of a cold, dark, night. Surreal, really, like a naked-in-class nightmare with a macabre twist. But I do it, because at this point, I’ll do whatever has to be done.
No one stops me. Not even Kai. What they do, instead, is circle around me. Backs turned, eyes averted. Shoulders together. A wall of black wool that hides me from view, and almost, almost shields me from the cold.
I fling out an hand in Morgan’s direction, and she supplies the dress, which I slip over my head. It’s light, insubstantial. Not outerwear in the slightest.
“I’m decent,” I say, and the four of them part.
“Good.” Morgan strides forward, spraying a heavy cloud of perfume over me that settles with a tingling feeling on my exposed skin: collarbones, hands, bare feet. I wrinkle my nose, but manage to resist the sneeze—somehow, it feels like that’d ruin the moment—and instead submit to Morgan’s motioning me forward, lifting something else to my head.
“Scarlet flax,” she says. A wreath—flowers. Small red trumpets of blossoms strung together in a circlet.
A crown.
Gently, she sets it onto my head, smoothing my hair with her fingertips and easing it in place.
“Perfect,” she murmurs. “You ready?”
If I have to be ready, then I’m ready, I think.
Outwardly, I just nod. Morgan smiles slightly.
“Good.” Taking both my hands in one of hers, she gestures the others back. “Shoo. Go…over there somewhere. Cooties,” she adds, in a low voice so only I can hear. “We can’t have boys throwing off the vibe.”
I giggle in spite of myself. The four of them share a look, but collectively seem to agree, and take a good few steps back.
“I feel like we’re at a slumber party,” I whisper as Morgan leads me to the edge of the water. “Trying to get Bloody Mary to show up in the mirror or something.”
As soon as I say it, I worry that I’ve offended her—making light of the practice, or whatever, but Morgan grins.
“Yeah, pretty close.” Right at the edge of the water, she lets me go, and steps aside so there’s nothing between me and the expanse of the lake. I’m feeling the cold a little, perfume notwithstanding, little tendrils of it seeping in at the edges of the dress. Shivering, I look at Morgan.
“Now what?”
“Now…” She considers. “Hm. Well, you know how to pray, right?”
It’s such a strange question. But I nod. “Sure.”
“Well, same idea.” Morgan sweeps a hand out in front of us. “You’re just asking for what you want. Focusing intently. Entreating the power that’s before you to oblige.”
“Okay…” I shake my head slightly. “Meaning?”
Morgan draws her brows together. “Meaning what I just said? Do what you feel.”
