“You look like a cartoon spy, Mortal.”
“I look disguised.”
“You look like you’re about to rob a bank in a very obvious manner.” Zara’s lips were twitching. “Or like you’re hiding from paparazzi. Badly.”
“It’s working!”
“It’s absolutely not.” Zara reached out, touched the brim of the hat. “If anything, you’re drawing more attention to yourself. No one dresses like this unless they’re trying to hide something.”
“Exactly. So they won’t know it’s me.”
“They’ll know something is wrong with you.” Zara’s voice was gentle, but she was definitely trying not to laugh. “Darling, you cannot walk into Thornwood looking like this.”
“Why not?”
“Because you look ridiculous.” Zara said it fondly, like it was an endearment. “Adorable, but ridiculous.”
“I’m being strategic?—”
“You’re panicking.” Zara reached out, started unwinding the scarf. “And normally I find that very endearing, but this is not going to work.”
Ramona let her remove the scarf. Then the hat. But she kept her hands on the sunglasses. “I needsomething,” she said. Her voice came out smaller than intended. “Everyone there knows my face. Everyone knows what I did. If someone sees me?—”
“Then we’ll handle it.” Zara’s hands came up to cup her face. “But not like this.”
“Then how?”
Zara was quiet for a moment, studying Ramona’s face. “I’m going to use my powers. Very minimally, but it’s a risk.”
“A risk?” Ramona asked.
“It might trigger something in Thornwood’s wards,” Zara explained. “That’s why it would be wise to do it here, outside of the grounds.”
Ramona nodded. “And while the convergence point is already corrupted and probably already taxing the wards.”
“Do you trust me?” Zara asked.
Ramona sighed. “Yes, but I’m nervous you’re asking that question.”
“Then hold still.”
Zara’s hands were still on Ramona’s face. Her expression shifted into that look of concentration she got when using magic — eyes slightly unfocused, breathing steady and deep.
Ramona felt the magic wash over her like cool water. Not uncomfortable, just strange. A gentle pressure against her skin, a tingling sensation that started at her scalp and moved down her face, her neck. “What are you?—”
“Shh. Almost done.” The sensation faded. Zara’s hands dropped away, and she was looking at Ramona with satisfaction. “There,” Zara said. “Much better.”
“What did you do?” Ramona reached for the mirror, angled it to see her reflection.
The face staring back at her was… not hers.
Still her, in a way. The same basic structure, the same general features. But different enough that no one would recognize her. Blonde hair instead of dark. Slightly different nose. Eyes a lighter shade. The kind of face that was pretty in a generic, forgettable way.
“You made me blonde,” Ramona said, unamused.
“I made you unrecognizable,” Zara corrected. “The blonde is because no one would ever expect a blonde Ramona.”
“Oh, so you’d prefer me blonde?” Ramona deadpanned.
