I lifted one shoulder in a hesitant shrug, although I was appreciative of his attempt to distract me with such a ludicrous question. Before I could form an answer, Vesper, draped indolently across Thistle’s shoulders, yawned wide enough to show every sharp tooth.
“How about gray?” the cat drawled. “To match the tombstone she’ll need if any of these bastards find out what she is.”
“Vesper!” Thistle chided.
But the absurdity of it—of my own demise being discussed as a fashion choice—drew an unexpected laugh from my throat.
He reached for my hand. His fingers brushed mine—hesitant at first, as though granting me time to pull away. I did not, nor did I wish to. Our hands fit together easily, as if the Saints themselves had sculpted them to align. For a breath, the noise of the city fell away; only the warmth of his hand remained.
We had not taken five paces past the lion statue before Thistle halted, looked the group over, and announced, “None of us can go to the Spring Jubilee looking like this.”
I glanced down at my boots, the torn hem of my dress, and the cloak still damp with morning dew. A woman in cobalt silk drifted by like a swan, sleeves star-dusted. “…Fair.”
Vesper scoffed. “Speak for yourselves. I look incredible, as always.”
“Let’s fix it,” she said, tipping her chin toward painted awnings and wrought signs.
The dressmaker’s shop hid between a perfumery and a bookseller. Branrir and Mav waited outside on a bench while Thistle, Vesper, and I ventured forth. Inside, it resembled a jewelry box after a pleasant explosion. Velvet chaises graced the shop corners; tall mirrors glowed beneath sconces shaped like lion paws. Masks blinked from glass cases, featuring beads, feathers, and gems. Mannequins turned on enchanted pedestals, showcasing gowns of exquisite detail. One dress bore clouds charmed into continuous motion; another was spun from iridescent lace, covered in pearls.
“Oh, I am going to cause problems,” Vesper purred as he vanished beneath a rack of feather boas.
“Mine,” Thistle said, pointing at a dressform draped in indigo and emerald.
A clerk wearing all black approached with a smile far too curated to be genuine. “May I assist you?”
As he turned, the light caught his cheek—a darkened scar in the shape of a single letter. U.
For a moment, I could not comprehend what I was seeing. Then the shape resolved itself in my mind, too deliberate to be accidental, too cruel to be self-inflicted.
Breath snagged painfully in my throat.
A brand.
I startled backward. My elbow caught the edge of a display, sending a tower of jeweled combs clattering to the floor. Vesper darted out from beneath his feathered hideaway at the clatter.
“Are you all right, madame?” the clerk asked, brows drawn.
“Yes-yes, my apologies.” I stooped at once, gathering the combs with shaking fingers.
Thistle rested a steadying hand on my arm and turned to the clerk. “Do you have anything in pink?”
He hesitated, then gave a sharp dip of his head. “I shall check the storeroom.”
When the door closed behind him, Thistle’s voice came softly. “Is it your first time seeing the mark of the ungifted?”
The branded flesh haunted my vision, a symbol that burned all the more for its permanence. Its brutality far exceeded the armbands. An unthinkable act of searing what Avandria deemed as failure into living skin.
I nodded, words trapped beneath my horror.
Thistle sighed, tracing a finger along a bolt of crimson fabric. “Around the same time as the king made the rest of the capital citizens wear classifying colors, he offered those without magic a choice. Back in the year of our Saints 1252, they were all to be exiled east, to the colony of the ungifted. But as the years passedand the kingdom’s population dwindled, the decree softened. The king allowed the ungifted to choose to leave or stay in society under strict conditions.”
“What conditions could be stricter than a brand?” My voice was quiet, laced with indignation.
Thistle winced. “I’ve always found the practice barbaric. Those who stay in Avandria may work in trades, but they’re taxed nearly twice what everyone else is, and their wages are meager at best. The mark makes sure no one forgets what they aren’t.”
I looked toward the storeroom door, shame and anger warring in my chest. The clerk’s carefully practiced smile replayed in my mind—an act of grace from someone denied the right to dignity.
Hot tears pinched at the corners of my eyes. It was one thing to be hunted for what I was, but another entirely to be condemned for what one was not. The thought of a life measured and limited by the absence of magic carved an aching wound within me.
