She spends an absurd amount of time lengthening my eyelashes. Only when they are curled to her satisfaction does she reply, “Too pretty to be real.”
I gaze into the mirror. Dark brown eyes hazed in kohl regard me calmly. This woman appears arrogantly unaffected. Hair teased, freckled skin spritzed with perfume, small pearls shining at her ears. An emerald gown, cut scandalously low, accentuates the length of her neck, softens the shape of her strong shoulders and upper arms.
Her name is Brielle.
“You don’t think this is a little much?” I hedge to Ailith, who applies a gold-tinted cosmetic to the outer corners of my eyes.
“My dear,” she says through her laughter, “I could do so much more. With your hair, your skin, your curves…” She trails off, mouth quirked. “Your gloves, however, clash with the outfit.”
I clench my hands in my lap. The brown leather does not particularly match the green, it is true. “I must keep them on. My faith requires that I do.”
I’m greeted by a look of pure skepticism. Ailith is not the first to respond in such a manner, nor will she be the last. I do not expect others to understand, and I made peace with it long ago.
“Well,” she goes on, substituting one powder for another, “as long as it makes you happy.”
It does make me happy, or it did, rather.
“So, there’s really nothing between you and Zephyrus?” the faun presses.
My eyes cut to hers. Pink colors my neck and climbs into my face.
“He’s a friend,” I croak.
“A friend. How quaint.” She’s smiling as she rubs rouge onto my lips. “The way Zephyrus looks at you, I’m not so sure your relationship is as chaste as you think.”
I vow not to question her further, but it has been a long, arduous road. Today, I am weak. “How does he look at me?”
Wiping an errant smudge from the corner of my mouth, she leans back to study her handiwork, darkly amused. “You’ll find out soon enough.”
From the top of the stairs, the great room spreads below in shades of gray pocked by small islands of candlelight. Countless patrons have since arrived in the time Ailith spentembellishingme. Her words, not mine. The guests crowd around the tables, slurping stew or sipping wine from finger-smudged glassware as the front door opens and closes with increasing frequency.
I am a blade.
I do not see Zephyrus. He left me in Ailith’s capable hands, claiming he would nurse a drink in the meantime. I force myself down the stairs, one hand fused to the railing, the other lifting the heavyskirt of my gown. The stairs creak with my descent. My attention flits from darkened corner to shaded nook, drapes partitioning off smaller sections in the larger space. I smell him—nectar and sunlight. The perfume of his skin.
Down and down and down I go, nearer to this evening’s purpose. There on the bottom step, my world goes still.
Across the room, the West Wind lounges in an armchair near the fireplace, body arranged in artful repose. Lifting a tumbler of amber liquid to his mouth, he watches me lazily over the rim. In the time we were apart, he has clearly shaved, the scruffy beard now gone. His green-eyed gaze holds candlelight, and darkens subtly in the passing moments.
Zephyrus’ mouth shapes a faint upward curve. The arrogance in that smile stirs things in me despite my attempts to defend myself against it. The West Wind: devious, clever, undying. A god.
Tipping back his head, he drains his drink to the dregs. A rush of heat tightens my skin as he unfurls from his sprawl with grace. He circles the tables, slipping through space with complete mastery, no evidence of the numbness likely eating at his legs. Then again, I am not the only one playing a part tonight.
A bead of sweat slithers down my spine as Zephyrus halts at the bottom stair, drinking me in. “You,” he murmurs, “are a wonder.”
“It was Ailith,” I stutter. “She did all the work.”
The West Wind leans forward, and I suddenly forget to breathe. “Darling,” he murmurs into my ear, “I have always thought you beautiful. I did not think that was a secret.”
My nipples pebble beneath my corset, pained and chafing, and I quickly cross my arms to conceal the evidence. “You never mentioned it,” I manage with breathless nerves. “You never once made it known.”
“Didn’t I?” His eyebrows hike upward, and the mossy rings encircling his pupils sparkle. “Think carefully. What is it you remember?”
He is too close, but I do not demand space, even when his sigh brushes my mouth. “You teased me,” I murmur. “You toyed with my emotions, always seeking a laugh, with me at the center of it all.”
Head canted, his attention slides across my waist, up to my chest, where it lingers, before returning to my face a heartbeat later. “I spoke truth in those times. You decided my words were false, having thought yourself unworthy of a man’s attention.”
“How could I believe you,” I quaver, “when every other word from your mouth was made in jest?”
