“Obviously,” she says, linking our arms. “This is our makeover montage. I’m not letting you show up in sad girl black and call it a costume.”
I let her pull me along, not fighting it. Spyglass Hill is picturesquein a carefully curated way—ivy crawling up bookstore facades, cafés with spindly chairs and steaming mugs by the window, and magical charm shops that pulse softly with wards and glamour spells. It doesn’t feel real, but maybe that’s why I can breathe a little easier here.
The boutique Dakota leads us to looks like it’s been plucked out of a Victorian dream. The sign reads Hemlock & Veil, its windows fogged from inside with hints of velvet and lace. A tiny bell rings when we step in.
Immediately, Dakota scatters like a magpie, fingers skimming rows of velvet gowns and jeweled masks.
“Okay, something in blood red would be hot,” she calls. “Or black with feathers. Or—oh my god—this one has silver beading that looks like constellations.”
I wander, letting my fingers drift across textures. Most of it looks too glamorous for me—too bold, too much like I’d be pretending to be someone else. But then, isn’t that what the masquerade is about?
My hand stills on a dress tucked to the side. Midnight black with long sheer sleeves, subtle embroidery curling like ivy along the hem. Understated. Elegant.
“You find one?”
I nod once. “Maybe.”
“You would look dangerous,” she says, pleased.
I glance at her. “And you?”
Dakota grins. “I’m going full vampire queen. If we’re going to crash Blackmoore’s perfect aesthetic, we might as well do it with fangs and vengeance.”
That makes me laugh.
We spend the rest of the afternoon trying things on, getting pastries from the corner café, and arguing about masks. For a while, I forget the weight of secrets and scars. For a while, I just feel… like a normal teenage girl trying to choose who she wants to be.
We’re halfway down the street when I catch my reflection in a salon window.
Ipause.
The glass is half-fogged from the heat inside, but my face is clear enough — tired eyes, bruises finally faded, the same ash-brown hair pulled back in a low knot like usual. Tamed. Dull. Familiar in a way that suddenly makes my stomach twist.
I stare at her — that girl behind the glass — and I realize I don’t want to see her anymore. Not like this.
“Hold up,” I say, already turning toward the door.
Dakota stops mid-step. “What?”
“I want to go in.” My voice doesn’t waver, even though my pulse is racing. “I need a change.”
She looks between me and the salon, her brows lifting. “A haircut?”
“More than that.” My hand is already pushing the door open. The scent of product and warm air rushes over me. “Come on.”
She hesitates for a beat, then her grin spreads. “Hell yes.”
We step inside together.
They usher us into side-by-side chairs. A stylist with bubblegum pink nails runs her hands through my hair, clicking her tongue with excitement. “You’ve got great texture,” she says. “Wavy like this? You should be showing it off, not hiding it.”
I nod mutely, and she goes to work.
The scissors are fast and confident. The streaks of soft silver are even faster — feathered in under warm lights while Dakota flips through hair inspo on her phone and makes sure I don’t chicken out.
When it’s done, the stylist doesn’t let me leave right away. “Sit. You’ve got all this, might as well learn how to work it.”
She walks me through styling — how to coax the waves without frizz, what products won’t weigh it down, even how to flick eyeliner in a way that makes my eyes look sharper, stormier. Stronger. When I finally spin around in the mirror… I don’t recognize the girl staring back.
