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I stuck my head out the door. “We already had that.”
“No, you had a mud bath. Seems they want to do it over, do it right, this coming Saturday—”
“No.”
“It’s gonna be here, instead of at the estate—”
“No.”
“It’s a nice dress.”
I pulled on the shorts and came out. Marco was standing by something that was a little better than “a nice dress.” It was a delicate, shimmering piece of art. A few crystalline lines sketched out the form here and there, like the ones connecting stars in a constellation. They delineated the soft drape of the skirt, the low-cut back, the plunging neckline. And between those was . . . nothing. Or, at least, what was there wasn’t cloth.
It was completely transparent, with a faint tinge of teal, like a dress made out of ice or glass—or the light that glimmered along fiber-optic filaments one minute and was gone the next. It was suspended a few feet off the floor and was slowly rotating, shedding softly glowing particles as it went. They lingered for a moment after the dress had turned, like a train of stars, before they disappeared.
I’d have been a little worried about the transparency thing if I didn’t think Augustine had done some sort of trick, like with Francoise’s ribbon. And if I hadn’t already gone full monty in front of most of the leaders of the magical world. And if I planned to wear it.
“It’s beautiful,” I said honestly, and Marco sighed.
“You ain’t coming, are you?”
“Let my double do it. She’s probably better at these kinds of things anyway.”
“And what are you going to do?” he asked, watching with disapproval as I shoved my feet into a pair of old sneakers.
“Raise some Hel,” I told him. And shifted.
