I brace for my end as she sweeps the dress up into her arms, holding it close, the same way she might embrace a lost child.
Sound stops.
Silence descends.
So heavy and sudden that I can’t move.
I can’t feel my body, slowly aware only that my ears are, indeed, bleeding, and my hearing must now be impaired, although I’m certain I’ll heal fast.
Thyra opens her eyes and presses her lips together before she whispers, “I don’t think this dress takes rejection well.”
A disturbing laugh rises into my throat, even though I can’t hear it, can only feel it rumbling through my chest.
Rejection?What the fuck?
More terrifying is the determination that falls over Thyra’s features, the narrowing of her eyes, the clench of her arms around the material.
An instant later, she throws the dressoutward.
I jolt, preparing for a new disaster as the dress flies back into the air.
The thread caught on Thyra’s thumb stretches taut, snapping taut, and then aboomshatters the silence.
Unlike the screaming melody, this boom is deep, as pure as the resonating beat of a drum.
“It’s time to live,” she whispers.
The dress splinters, every thread parting, an instant deconstruction into a mass of swirling strands floating in the air opposite Thyra.
Without pause, she abandons her effort to cover her chest as she wrenches at the black pants she’s wearing, rapidly shimmying out of them one-handed before she steps toward the mass of threads.
Andintoit.
I barely catch sight of her nearly naked body, her beautiful curves, before a storm of silver erupts around her.
Magical strands whirl, whip, and wrap around her, conforming to her shape, covering her from her feet to her neck, even threading up through her hair, untangling her dark tresses until they fall smoothly around her shoulders.
She stretches her arms out, her head thrown back, her eyes closed, swaying gently as if she’s moving to a sound I can’t hear.
I want to hear it.
I need the serenity that appears to be enfolding her.
The soothing calm that makes her appear completely…untouchable.
With a final whoosh, the last loose thread wraps into place. Every inch of her skin, from her toes to the top of her neck, is now covered.
The silver threads have formed calf-high boots, fitted silver pants, and a metallic corset. The threads are thicker in places, forming a triangle above her breasts, its tip pointing to the baseof her throat. Long sleeves, also fitted, extend down into silver gloves while an overskirt rests around her hips, open at the front to allow full movement of her legs.
Silver filigree extends up into the now-silken strands of her hair, which frame her face in striking waves.
My chest is tight. I’ve somehow made it up onto my knees, and all I can do is fucking watch her as she hurries toward me, kneeling opposite me, the overskirt spreading like scattered stars across the floor.
“Antony?”
I manage a quiet, “Fuck.”
Close by, Cassia has unfurled. She must have witnessed the dress transform because her eyes are shining.
