Themirrorofferednoanswers.
Emmaline stood before it, fingers fidgeting at the hem of her flowing blue skirt, the high slit revealing just enough to make her feel exposed. The silver belt—Margo’s belt—sat snug at her waist, while her loose, billowy shirt fluttered at the elbows with each movement.
The room around her was a masterpiece of indulgence and shadow, a space crafted for power and pleasure alike. Rich, dark fabrics cascaded from the towering windows, muting the city’s glow beyond. The furniture was a careful balance of luxury and lethality—chairs carved from obsidian wood with deep cushions meant for lounging, yet edged with clawed detailing that suggested they could cut if one sat the wrong way. Something heady and intoxicating bled into the air, not quite floral, not quite spice, lingering in the blood and making the senses hum.
“So, the Lordling is not your mate, and you like the green-haired one now instead.”
From her place on the divan, Ursula exhaled a long, lazy stream of smoke, the deep purple of her nails catching the low fae-light candles as she tapped her cigarette against a glass tray carved with harsh, cruel-looking runes.
Emmaline flipped her hair over one shoulder, resisting the urge to keep adjusting her belt, and turned toward her friend. “Yes… I think so. Maybe.”
Ursula took a slow drag from her cigarette, the glowing tip flaring in the dim light before she exhaled another ribbon of smoke. “That’s a relief. Though I had hoped to take a ride on the other one myself.”
On Deyric?A low, involuntary growl bubbled up from Emmaline’s throat before she could stop it—sharp and primal, not entirely her own. She coughed immediately, heat flooding her face as she turned back to the mirror.
“Oh!” Ursula’s brows lifted, intrigue sparking in her dark, knowing eyes. “It’s like that, is it?”
Emmaline coughed again, but her voice came a little too high, a little too rushed. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Ursula only laughed, as Emmaline hurried to change the subject, gesturing to herself in the mirror.
“I like this one. What do you think?” She turned slightly, raising her arms and letting them fall.
Ursula’s gaze dragged over her, unimpressed. “Yes, wonderful. I’m sure you’d make a great impression if you were a youngling. Or maybe one of those ‘flower humans’ or whatever they’re called.”
“Hippies?” Emmaline frowned, rolling the word over in her mind, wondering which was worse, a flower-draped human dreamer or an Ellyllon child playing dress-up.
Neither was good. If Deyric was coming tonight, she wanted to look… not softer, not sweeter, but—
Warmth rushed up her neck. Despite searching for him at the castle earlier that day, she hadn’t seen him. Not that it was entirelyunusual. His responsibilities were tied to Caelith, and she hadn’t seen the Lord either.
At the thought of Caelith, her fingers tightened around her waist. Memories from her encounter with him the previous night knotted deep in her gut. The way he had looked at her made her feel like a cornered animal rather than a person.
“Here, put this on.”
A tangle of straps and lace came hurtling toward her. Catching it before it could swat her in the face, she blinked down at the scrap of cream-colored something or other that now lay in her hands.
“What is this?” She lifted it, trying to make sense of the fine knots and sheer panels, unraveling the gossamer web of lace with careful fingers.
“Something that will capture your friend’s attention.” Ursula smirked, her cigarette pointing at Emmaline’s chest like an accusation. “Much more than that silly thing you have on.”
Emmaline frowned. “I don’t know. It’s not really my style.”
Ursula tapped her sharpened nails against the cigarette holder. “Since when do you have style, dear?”
Emmaline exhaled loudly, making a show of her reluctance, and lifted the delicate mess of leather-like straps and silk-threaded lace up against her frame. “Very well. For you, I will give it a try.”
She turned her back, shrugging off the flowing top, the cool air of the room kissing her skin as she fumbled with what could only loosely be described as a corset. The delicate boning pressed in snugly, forcing her to shimmy, bend, and wriggle as she tried to figure out where everything was meant to sit and fasten.
“Goddess above.” One strap slipped loose, another cut across her ribs, and somehow, despite all her twisting, she still couldn’t figure out if the damned thing was right-side up. She turned in place, trying to reach behind her, fingers grasping uselessly at the strings that refused to tighten correctly.
Glowering, she huffed out an irritated breath, blowing a long strand of hair from her face. “Do I have it right?” she asked, turning back to her friend.
“Oh my.” Ursula’s cigarette nearly tumbled from her lips as her eyes swept down and then back up.
“I feel ridiculous.” Emmaline crossed her arms.
Ursula stood and moved closer with slow, deliberate grace.
