Maybe it’s because she’s got a hoard a dragon would be envious of. Still, it’s hard for me to wrap my head around being so careless with things worth hundreds if not thousands of dollars.
I slide open the drawers of the walk-in closet’s built-in jewelry cabinet again, checking their contents against the photo Aunt Daphne pointed out to me.“The emerald necklace you picked out for your junior graduation would go perfectly with the new dress. This one here.”
The framed family portrait shows Other Elodie at age 14, flanked by Dad and his parents, not even Daphne having made the cut. Gold and gems glitter around my doppelganger’s neck, the fine chain dipping to a cluster of deep green teardrops by her clavicle.
Itwouldcoordinate well with the forest-green silk rustling against my skin as I dip lower to search the next drawer, but there’s no sign of it anywhere I can think to look. With a sigh, I pick up the simpler emerald pendant I did find and position myself in front of the full-length mirror.
The new dress Daphne inflicted on me during our shopping session yesterday is fancier than anything I’ve worn in my life. The silk gleams across the fitted chest and flows out to ripple around my calves. Delicate gold embroidery studded with tiny twinkling crystals emphasizes the waist and winds along the hem.
I had to argue with my aunt about cleavage—apparently Other Elodie was all for deep plunges. But my aunt accepted the relatively high sweetheart neckline I picked out as a compromise that wouldn’t be too out of character.
I’d prefer to be covered up to my collarbones, but a couple inches below still keeps the scars on my chest hidden.
When I twist to one side and then the other, the skirt flares around my hips. I tuck my hair behind my ears, exhaling my jitters as well as I can.
I’ve never been to a party like this before. I was too much of an outcast to be admitted into the Blossom club in my own reality.
Blossom regularly puts on joint socials with the equivalent male club, Bounty, because even though we Luminary students aren’t supposed to be gettingreallytouchy-feely with each other, many of us still want to dance with the opposite sex. And to look very fancy while doing it.
It’ll be fine. More rich kids hobnobbing and playing out their privilege.
Grady will probably be there, and some of the other Eclipse members too. I didn’t glean anything useful from them at The Eclipse earlier today, but this party gives me another chance.
How has it already been a week since Daphne wrenched me into this world against my will? I’ve got to sink into this role, and maybe I’ll see something I’ve missed.
I certainly look the part. Like a modern princess waiting for her carriage.
Despite my intentions, my thoughts flit to my matches back home. Imagining how they’d react seeing me dressed up like this: Salvatore’s approving grin, a gleam of eager appreciation in Byron’s eyes, Cole shrugging like it makes no difference to him but letting his gaze linger all the same with an unmistakable smolder.
A shiver runs over my skin. For a second, I miss them so much I can’t breathe.
Swallowing hard, I square my shoulders. Inhale. Exhale.
I can keep going. Every step forward takes me closer to them.
Someday I might be able to afford to dress up like this for them in our reality.
I pull on the matching silk gloves, which stretch to mid-bicep. Only a few inches of skin remain bare below the cap sleeves. It’s not even that daring when the guys will have long-sleeved shirts. As long as the girls don’t go around bumping shoulders, my schoolmates should all be safe from inopportune matching.
And I shouldn’t have to worry about encountering any of my would-be matches of this world. No professors are allowed. Asher wouldn’t meet Bounty’s standards. My Byron rarely bothered with the parties—and he was already socializing at The Eclipse this morning. Salvatore scoffed at all the glitz.
After this week’s turmoil, it’ll be a welcome break.
No distractions. Just getting down to work… while getting down.
Grabbing my clutch, I head out to the waiting car.
As majestic as the Luminary buildings are, the most elite student clubs don’t consider them party-worthy. Tonight’s social is being held in the ballroom of a grand hotel downtown.
I head past the front door the footman opens for me, knowing he and the other hotel staff are seeing only a bunch of spoiled rich kids for whom a yearly prom night isn’t enough. Around drab employees, we can’t use any noticeable magic, but that’s not what anyone’s here for anyway.
I’ve arrived fashionably late, but the real dancing hasn’t started yet. Pop music jangles at a subdued volume through the brightly lit doorway. In the vast room beyond, dozens of students in elegant suits and dresses cluster around the cocktail tables set to one side, casting coy glances at their hoped-for partners and waiting for the main event to begin.
The moment I walk through the doorway, my friends gather around me and usher me over to the drinks table. Glasses of champagne, bottles of coolers, and a crystal bowl of the punch that’s no doubt spiked stand ready for us to enjoy.
How much do our parents pay off the hotel so they’ll ignore the underage drinking? I guess I should be thankful the socials are only for seniors so I won’t have to witness any preteens getting wasted.
As I pick up a lemonade cooler with no intention of taking more than a few sips, Cadance brandishes a champagne glass. “Another week down! Just two more months and we’ll be on to our last year.”
