I was used to illusion. I’d recognized it for what it was my entire life.
But there were lots of types of illusion. Conjurers wove illusion and made it real. But humans could make illusion too. They used lies, misdirection, visual tricks, optical illusions.
The bridal salon was a type of illusion. Not the knots and ropes of conjurers, but a different kind.
It was the illusion that if you bought one of the beautiful, luxurious, stunning dresses in this shop, then you would be admired, loved, envied. Your wedding would be perfect. Your marriage would be perfect. Your life would be perfect. And it all began here. With the perfect dress. In this shop.
I could almost hear the promise whispered as I stepped into the bridal salon.
The space was luxurious. The ceiling was tall and the room expansive—it was a wide-open future full of possibilities. The crystal chandeliers gave off a soft, romantic glow—the future was a lovely, romance-laden pink. There were tasteful settees with plush pillows—the future always had safe, comfortable places to rest. And there was plenty of gold, marble, and . . . champagne.
A woman in a black sheath dress held a golden tray with two tall glasses full of bubbling golden liquid. Behind her, there was a table spread with pastries, chocolate-dipped strawberries, waffles, tiny crepes, and a plate of chocolate truffles.
“Welcome, Ms. Clark,” the woman said.
I checked her quickly, searching for illusion. I wouldn’t be surprised if Last had cooked her brains. But no. The smile was real. The champagne was real. The coffee was real.
I smiled at Last.
She grinned back.
Her cheeks were pink. Her eyes almost sparkled under the crystal lights. She grabbed the champagne glasses and handed one to me.
She clinked our glasses together. “To finding the perfect dress.”
She shot back the entire glass of champagne in one gulp. I followed suit. Then she topped up our glasses, and we had another. No breakfast meant the champagne sparkled through my bloodstream and made my smile wobbly and off-center.
But as Last’s hopeful, hungry gaze focused on the display of wedding dresses, I realized one true thing. Even though she hated Luvic. Even though she didn’t expect her marriage to make her happy. Even though she claimed she was going to kill him after she had his heir. Even though . . .
She still wanted to feel beautiful—and terrifying—on her wedding day.
Today, she was just a bride-to-be like any other, and I was her maid of honor.
“No. Nope. No. No. No.” I waved my hands, pushing the wedding dress out of the changing room. “No mermaid-style. No.”
Last giggled, and I tilted, stumbled, then slid onto the plush velvet ottoman. It was closer to the floor than I realized, and I nearly fell off.
Last hiccupped.
“We’re drunk,” I said, closing one eye and peering at Last. The changing room—as big as my bedroom at Hell Gate—spun like a carousel. “Why are we drunk?”
Last snorted. “Cause. We had three”—she held up four fingers—“bottles of champagne.”
I shook my head. “We had one.”
She laughed and then flicked a finger against my forehead. I jerked toward the mirror, and the room spun. There was a knot on my forehead. It was small, barely noticeable, and it hovered below my right temple.
“You didn’t!”
Last snorted again. Then she grabbed another wedding dress and tugged it over her head.
We’d been here for hours. She’d tried on at least sixty dresses, a dozen veils, gloves, garters, shoes. Six different people had been bringing her dresses to try on, champagne to drink, and food to eat. She’d booked the shop for the entire day. I wasn’t sure what she’d told them or how much she’d promised to spend, but she was being treated like visiting royalty.
I’d never been dress-shopping before. At Hell Gate, we were given clothing to wear—black. At the Night Den, Luvic had conjured all my disguises. There had never been any need to shop. This was a new, strange experience.
And the whole day was all a blur, as if I were looking at it through a golden glass of bubbling champagne.
Drunk.
