The city was awake. Sunlight peeked through the stone buildings and pooled in puddles of light on the sidewalks. I splashed through one and then stopped in the shade to peer in the shop windows.
“Tell me again why there’s such a rush?” I asked.
There was a mannequin in the window wearing a wedding gown, with enough lace to wrap around the spire of the Empire State Building. Twice.
When I left the asylum, I had no idea what Last had in store for us. But I would never have guessed this. We were in Soho, near the Bard’s temporary apartment, at a luxury bridal salon.
“The city is in chaos. Besides Rockefeller falling, there was another earthquake last night. All our homes are destroyed. The Smith killed another three of your cousins this morning?—”
Last scoffed and then nodded to the window. “What do you think about this dress?”
“Your principal wants to free a monster. Your brother wants to kill the Smith and claim the crown. And you want?—”
“Too much lace, right?”
“—to spend the day shopping for a wedding dress?”
“White isn’t my color either. I prefer black. Or onyx.”
“Onyx is black.”
“Or jet.”
“Jet is black.”
“See! You’re perfect for this. I knew it was the right choice to bring you along. If my mother were alive . . .” Last’s lips wobbled, and then she shrugged. “She’d help me. But you’re here, Mari. You’re here.”
She reached over and gripped my hand. Her fingers were ice-cold and frail. She gave me a joyous, bride-like smile, but her mood was brittle and sharp-edged. It felt like if I poked hard enough, she’d shatter.
“A friend is almost as good as a mother . . .”
She stared at me, her dark eyes entreating. Her grip reminded me of when we were lying in the rowboat together in the lake in Central Park, sharing secrets and friendship. Except that moment had never actually happened.
All the same, the faded memory of being friends still remained. The echo of emotions remained.
I squeezed her hand back. The heat in my blood had transferred to her, warming her cold grip.
“You don’t have to marry him, you know.”
Last laughed, and the noise was as jarring as discordant wedding bells. “You’re the perfect maid of honor. Are you going to tell me he isn’t good enough for me?”
“No. He isn’t right for you.”
Last yanked her hand free from mine. “Don’t be stupid.”
She twisted her fingers and threw a line of darts at me. Their tips glistened with poison. I unraveled the knots, and they vanished. She conjured a knife and thrust it toward my ribs. I untied the illusion and smoothly blocked her fist. I stepped to the side and pulled open the shop door.
A blast of air-conditioning hit me.
“Thanks.” Last smirked and then whispered, “I like that you aren’t breakable.”
I let out a long breath. “Marrying him won’t make you happy.”
“I don’t expect it to. Come on. Let’s find the perfect dress. I want to look terrifying and beautiful.” Last swept through the front door.
Cold, chest-freezer air hit us as we entered the bridal salon. The door shut and closed out the rush-hour traffic, the clouds of exhaust, the construction noise, and the sweltering summer scramble.
It took a second to adjust to the vacuum-like seal that closed out the bustle. My ears popped at the sudden shift from city-loud noise to dampened silence. I blinked.
