“Turn,” I murmured.
She obliged. The back of her dress dipped low enough to make my hands ache to touch her. A ribboned corset cinched her waist, but the top ties had been left loose where she couldn’t quite reach them.
“May I?”
She nodded.
Picking up the ribbons, my fingers brushed along the warm line of her spine. Her skin was soft beneath my touch. Quinn’s shoulder blades lifted a fraction, then settled, as if her body were trying not to lean into me. Each pull of the corset was deliberate, slow—a quiet binding of want and worship neither of us spoke aloud. When it was snug, I leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the bare space between her neck and shoulder.
Her breath hitched. “If you keep doing that,” she said, her voice low, “we might miss the event altogether.”
I smiled against her skin, lips brushing her collarbone. “Promise?”
She laughed then, wicked and warm.
We donned our masks and descended the inn’s curving staircase together, her hand resting in the crook of my arm. I couldn’t stop staring at her. When we reached the foyer, I wasn’t the only one stunned into silence.
Thistle stood with one hip cocked and both hands braced at her waist, looking like she’d stepped straight out of some highborn fairytale—one where the heroine would rob you blind, gut you in an alley, and look beautiful doing it. Her dress was deep emerald green, fitted at the waist before flaring into a skirt that brushed the tops of her boots. Silver vinework embroidery curled along the sleeves and hem, ivy caught mid-climb. Her hair had been twisted into small coils at the crown and pinned with tiny gold cuffs, accentuated by her bronze fox-shaped mask.
“Yes, it’s actually me. Try not to faint,” Thistle said, grinning. “Quinn, my dear, you’re an absolute vision.”
Quinn smiled at her, a flush forming on her cheeks. “Thank you, as are you.”
Branrir loomed behind her, a wall of unshakable presence. He wore formal military attire—white and gold, in crisp, stern lines. At his left shoulder, a lion-shaped pauldron gleamed proudly. A ceremonial sword hung at his hip, its hilt adorned with a single purple tassel. His mask was full-plate, burnished gold with narrow eye slits.
He inclined his head toward us. “You clean up better than expected, Mav.”
“I tried,” I said dryly.
And then there was Vesper. Somehow, he’d acquired a miniature plum cape and was attempting—poorly—to balance an owl-shaped mask on his head. The beak kept sliding sideways, giving him the air of a masked highwayman who’d already stolen tithes and would, without hesitation, do it again.
“I demand to be carried like royalty,” he declared, lifting a paw.
“No,” Thistle said instantly.
He sighed, fluffing his fur. “Worth a shot.”
Before I could respond, Thistle turned back to Quinn, a mischievous glint in her eye. “Hold still.”
Thistle reached up and brushed her fingertips along the top edge of Quinn’s mask. The green glow of Hedge magic whispered into the air. From above the right brow, tiny violet buds unfurled, crowning the mask.
“There,” Thistle said, leaning back to admire her handiwork. “Now you’re perfect.”
Quinn lifted tentative fingers to brush the petals along her mask. “Thank you,” she whispered, so quietly I almost missed it.
No.Thank you.I offered my arm again. “Shall we?”
Her smile illuminated a corner of my heart I had kept in shadow for years. With a squeeze of my forearm, she said, “Let us go.”
Together, we stepped into the cooling evening, the bells of the city carrying us toward the castle. The streets of Aurillion glowed like a dream. Hearths ignited flames in tiny lanterns that floated on suspended wires. Music drifted from somewhere ahead—harps and low drums, the heartbeat of a city dressed in celebration.
But I couldn’t absorb any of it.
I couldn’t stop looking at her.
Quinn moved with quiet grace, her skirts swaying gently as she walked. She didn’t seem to notice how many people turned to watch her—or maybe she did and simply didn’t care.
“I don’t think I can tell you enough,” I said, my voice low, “how beautiful you are.”
