It shouldn’t matter, but I hate that he finds me impulsive and naïve; I want to prove him wrong. I want to prove the world wrong.
I jump when someone knuckles my bedroom door but relax when I catch sight of Syb in her fluorescent wig. “Ready, babe?”
I stick the orange wig on my head, readjust my breasts, then the shoulder piece Syb insisted I wear. It’s an odd thing, fashioned from indigo lace and fringed with sapphire-colored beads. According to my friend, shoulder accessories are an incoming trend in pureling fashion.
“I know tonight isn’t for fun, but Gods, we make hot spies. We’ll have to do a masked evening with Phoebus. He’d absolutely love it.”
Cauldron, how I miss my friend. Selfishly, I wish he’d been here because life is just not as bright without him.
He’s safe, I remind myself as I link arms with Sybille and head down the stairs.
I expect to find Catriona but only Giana stands there.
“Aoife”—she tenders her sky-blue wig my guard’s way, and is it me, or is her arm shaking?—“something came up. I know you were thinking of flying but I’d feel better if you stayed right beside these two.”
“These two?” Syb scoffs. “Gods, why must you make us feel like children?”
“Because youarechildren.” Gia runs her palms down the sides of her face and expels a long, long breath. “To me, you will always be children. That’s just the way chronology works. Wait till you have almost a full century on someone.”
I suddenly cannot wait to turn one hundred, not to be older than everyone else but because if I do reach that number, then that means I wasn’t killed off by some Shabbin or Crow hater.
What will Luce look like in a hundred years?
What will Luce look like next year?
Giana’s lips bend but the curve vanishes almost as quickly as it appeared. “Please, Aoife.”
My Crow guard pinches the wig as though it was deeply-soiled underwear.
“She’ll need to wear a dress”—Syb gestures to my guard’s leather and iron armor—“or everyone will know what she is, which will alert Lucins to Fallon’s presence amongst us. We’re supposed to be anonymous.”
Aoife scowls at the blue hair. “No dress.”
Taking pity on her, I head to the coat closet beneath the stairs and unearth a red silk cape that must’ve belonged to Ptolemy because, firstly, it’s huge, and secondly, I cannot picture any of the boys wearing such a garish garment. Yes, their wardrobes have improved, but their preferred clothing palette remains basic—white, black, navy, and gray.
Although Aoife grumbles, she dons the cape and wig. As we exit through the living room, she looks at the sky and mutters many words. Crows may worship Mórrígan, but they don’t pray like the Fae, so I assume she’s verbally flipping off her fellow guards.
The terrible friend that I am cannot help but laugh at her irritation.
“I will revenge for this,” she huffs under her breath, shooting me a very Imogen-like glare, which is hard to take seriously considering her lurid accoutrement.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper between more puffed laughter. “It’s nerves. Just nerves.”
She hoists her chin a centimeter higher. “You lucky I like you, Fallon.”
My hilarity turns into a gentle grin. “Iamlucky.”
Aoife sighs, and her glower transforms into another look altogether—one I may have called smug had it graced anyone else’s face. “I will still revenge,” she proclaims.
“Get in line.”
“In what line?” One of her eyebrows rises over the upper rim of her mask.
“It’s an expression. It means there are a lot of people who also want revenge.” Honestly, some days, I can hardly believe I still breathe considering the number of people who want me buried infiliaserpens.
“We protect you, always.”
Or rather, until the day Lore has no more use for me. Which could potentially be tomorrow if all goes according to plan.
