Page 11 of His Pretty Little Queen

I peer down my body, at my Bambi print shirt—the one that made Clay smile—and the white flowy skirt that bares a lot of my legs, liking them far more than the piece in my hand—

"That's a lovely choice," a voice says from behind me.

I smile stiffly, and hook the pencil skirt on the ‘maybe rack’ even though it’s ano.

They are all so same-same. Black. Red. Mauve. Dusty… everything.Dusty pink, blue, green. Why do we want to look dusty? Why is worn and tattered the new…new? The entire concept confuses my poverty-constructed brain.

But then… "It's better to stand out, than fit in," I mutter to myself, as my mother's entire philosophy in life tumbles into my mind while the simple, yet stunning garments around me guarantee I will do far more fitting in than standing out.

The middle-aged woman who is pretending to search for somethingImay like keeps glancing my way as though she has more words working their way around her tongue.

I pull out a cute white flowy shirt that might look elegant as a dress with a tan belt. If I get a size too large… I might like that. I present it to her, saying, "I quite like this... as a dress, though."

The woman shakes her head, and I frown, not surprised by her attitude. I kind of want to look the part so they'll respect me, so I go along with this. "That's a Valentino," she says. "It isn't supposed to be worn as a dress."

Right…

I keep looking. I've always liked op-shopping because there are trends and styles from every era. I enjoy mixing and matching and wondering what life the garment has already lived… It is one of the few things I remember doing with my mum.

She used to say we were different. I'm not sure I was anything really… an extension of her, maybe. Looking back on what I recall,shewasdifferent.Her opinions: wild. Her theories: conspiracies she probably never honestly believed. She just… wanted something to say. Even if she was absurd. At the very least, she was interesting.Enchanting.

Memorable,even.

She felt the same way about her appearance and mine. While other girls wore jeans and tee-shirts, I was dressed in flowing dresses, denim jackets, and cowboy boots. She hid in her boldness, in her bullshit.

"Be like the moon, Fawn. Light up the dark."

Then she put a bullet in her brain.

"I've been dressing Mrs Butcher since she was nine," the woman says, drawing me from my thoughts. She clutches at her red shawl as she approaches a rear rack of clothes. "And her style is flawless." She spins to face me with an expression of feigned politeness. She gazes at me like a project. A quiet cringe crosses her face before she recovers her retail smile. "Whydon't we try something new? Huh? You know, there is a certain image that Mr and Mrs Butcher uphold and—" She gives me another once over. "You're stunning, young lady, but maybe we could change your style a tad."

"Fawn,"—Aurora's voice sails through the room, although I can't seem to place her, the racks creating partitions in the vast space—"has her own style."

She appears beside me, her long dark hair pinned up perfectly, her chin tilted higher than straight, a pleasant smile set into her lips. She places her hand on my shoulder; her support can be sensed in the weighted touch. My chest tightens with jealousy, with happiness, too, because I like her.Gah,it's asuckysituation. "Mr Butcher is quite fond of her style. Don't change her."

That makes me smile.

"Oh, of course," the woman says through a nervous laugh, backpedalling like crazy in the presence of this impressive woman. "It was only a suggestion."

"And best refer to Fawn as Miss Harlow." She looks at me questioningly, and I suddenly straighten under her gaze. "Fawn, you don't need to pick anything. If there is nothing here you want, Prada has a white poplin dress and pleated tulle skirt that I think you'll love. We can bring you others." She studies me as I nod compliantly. "You don't want anything, do you?"

I worry my bottom lip, working the skin as I contemplate how to avoid offending her. I do want to be more like her… "It's just not mything." I squirm, my need to please twisting coils of reluctance through me. "But I understand that I live here now, and I need clothes, so…" I trail off because she laughs softly, her eyes crinkling at each edge.

"I find cooking tedious," she admits, sliding her hand from my shoulder to smooth my blonde hair down my crown. Her touch makes me sigh. "You find clothes shopping so. You don't have to be like me, Fawn. You can finally be whomever you want. I know Clay has told you to use your voice. Say what you want here."

She rubs my shoulder with gentle pressure as she turns to leave, and I follow her with my gaze until she is out of the room. The protective dominance she carries with effortless grace vanishes, leaving me with a little pout.

I realise I like her around a lot more than I like her absence. Having her close is a direct line to Clay. Having her close is like being close tohim.

I turn to the lady, squaring my shoulders. "I'm actually going to pass…" I glance around. "Oneverything—Thank you."

* * *

"Mr Butcher?"I question, squinting at a muscular, suited back. Clay's dad moves towards the double front doors.

At least I think it's Luca Butcher.

Dude looks super scary…

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