The others were getting ready in the guest rooms down the hall. She could hear Felix arguing with Gerald about a bow tie. Kashvi’s voice drifted down the hall, talking to ghosts Ramona couldn’t see. Posey and Cammie were giggling about something.
But Ramona was alone. She wanted to get ready alone, had told everyone she wanted some time.
She stared at her reflection.
The dress was right. Her makeup was light — truthfully, she was afraid at some point during the night she’d cry her mascara right off, and she instead took a moment to look up a glamour spell for waterproofing her eye makeup.
The fox sat on the bed behind her, watching her with what looked like a bored expression. He seemed to be letting her know she was on her own tonight.
Her own eyes flicked upward, toward her hair.
The purple was still there. Faded and uneven from when she’d glamoured it the first time. Some sections were vibrant, others washed out. Some strands were more pink than purple. It felt like a scar, like a visible reminder of her inability to do even basic magic correctly.
The curse, she knew now. It felt odd to think that way. It was as if her life had split in two now — there was before the curse, and after the curse. Before Zara, and after Zara.
No.No, she would not be crying off her makeup before she even made it to the gala. She was focusing on her hair, not on losing the only one who had ever truly seen her and loved her anyway.
She took a deep breath through her nose. Her hair looked messy. Unkempt. Not appropriate for the Ostara Gala.
Eleanor would hate it.
The Council would judge her for it.
She really should fix it. Glamour it back to her natural color, now that she could. Or, better yet, something classic and sophisticated. The kind of hair color that said now she had her life together, that she was a respectable witch, that she deserved to be taken seriously.
Ramona raised her hand. Her magic responded instantly, easy and eager. She focused on her reflection. Thought about brown hair. Normal hair. Acceptable hair.
The purple began to fade and shift toward brown.
But it looked… wrong.
Not wrong like her magic failing — wrong like she was erasing something, like she was going backward instead of forward. With brunette hair, she looked like Eleanor. Like Iris.
Zara had loved the purple.
“It suits you,” she’d said, her long dark-tipped fingers winding through Ramona’s hair. “Unexpected. A little rebellious. Very you.”
Ramona lowered her hand. The glamour dissolved. The patchy purple returned.
She stared at her reflection.
The purple washer. She’d chosen it. Not because it was professional or acceptable or what her mother would approve of, but because she’d wanted something different. Something that wasn’t Ramona Greenbriar, Epic Failure and General Disappointment.
Except she wasn’t the disappointment anymore. Without the curse to explain all of her failures, who was she?
Who was she, post-curse? After Zara?
Ramona raised her hand again. This time, she didn’t think about brown. She didn’t think about acceptable. She thought aboutmore.
Her magic surged but stayed gentle and controlled. Responding to her intent like it was the easiest thing in the world.
The purple in her hair deepened, turning glossy. The patchy sections evened out. The faded parts became vibrant.
The kind of purple that caught light and held it, that made people look twice, that announced itself without saying a word. It was bold and unapologetic. That’s the Ramona Greenbriar she wanted to be.
Ramona adjusted it slightly. Added depth, darker purple at the roots, brighter at the ends. Made it look intentional instead of accidental. Like she’d chosen this and meant it.
She let the magic settle, dropped her hand, and stared at her reflection.
