Sewell is laundering them.
Oh. “That’s kind of him. Should I”—I gesture to the door—“go collect them?”
No. He’s coming.
I make sure all my bits are covered. I may walk around naked in my dreams and in front of birds, but it’s not a habit of mine in real life. I rake my hand through my hair, which has acquired a lot of volume while I slept. And I do meana lot. I stand, sashay over to the bathtub, then bend over to observe my reflection. Even though there’s hardly any light, I catch the swell of locks atop my head in the mirror-smooth surface.
I scoop water and dump it on the chaos to smoosh it down, and then I finger-comb the mass. As I untangle, my mind wanders back to the deft fingers that ran over my skin, to the crow master who I managed to conjure in fantastic detail after one brief glimpse. My mind is a strange place.
A knock startles my fingers out of my hair.
“Come in.”
“Slept well?” Sewell asks, smiling. I think he may be teasing me, that he heard me moan or talk about penetrating minds with Morrgot, but the more I watch his face, the more his smile strikes me as genuine.
“Yes. Thank you for lending me your bed.” I look at the fabric draped over his arm. It’s yellow, and velvety. Unless he laundered my clothes with pollen, then what hangs over his arm isn’t mine.
“I hope this’ll fit.” He holds it up.
A dress unspools, honeyed velvet with an outsized black floral motif. The skirt is long and full, made fuller by the narrowness of the bustier top.
“That’s, um . . .” I stare at Morrgot, hoping he’ll pitch in. When Sewell keeps presenting it with that bright smile of his, I think my crow is letting me handle this one. “A dress.”
“Sure is.” Sewell’s grin grows.
“Is it the best outfit for . . . tonight?” I don’t utter my plan for the evening out loud, uncertain how much Sewell has been told.
“Six silvers, this gown cost. Never bought anything as pricey in my forty-four years of life.”
Forty-four?Huh. I estimated my host was in his sixties. Time strikes human faces so very fast.
Nibbling on the pillow of my lip, I venture, “I don’t have six silvers on me.”
“Oh, that’s all right. His majesty paid before sending me to the market on Cliffside.”
My eyes must bug out because Sewell’s grin fades and he shifts from boot to boot, the velvet dress rustling in time with his sideways bobbing.
“Have I chosen badly? I don’t know much about womenswear, but the salesclerk assured me it’d be perfect for tonight.”
“No, it’s lovely. Truly. I guess I was expecting pants.”
“You cannot attend a revel in pants.”
“A revel?” I swing my attention to Morrgot. “You’re sending me to a party?”
I am.
“I thought—I thought I’d be . . .” I mime shoveling and almost drop my sheet in the process. “Not to challenge your decision, but don’t you think a girl in a ballgown handling a shovel will raise more eyebrows? At least, in slacks, I may be mistaken for a boy.”
Sewell will be doing the shoveling.
“Ah. Okay . . .” I’m glad for the extra set of hands yet can’t help but frown.
You, Fallon, will be distracting Marco and your prince.
I sputter, then choke on my sputter. “You’re handing me over to them?”
I’m handing you over to no one.
