Cosima nodded.
“Reverie is right.”
Rev looked pleased in a way that suggested she had never, aslong as she lived, expected Cosima Verraine to tell her she was right.
I touched the dress.
The silk was cool under my fingers.
“My mother wore this into her formal.”
“Yes,” Cosima said.
“And walked out of it alive.”
The air between us thinned.
Cosima’s hands folded in front of her.
Rev stopped turning the apple.
“Yes.”
“Until they killed her for staying alive after she refused.”
Cosima’s gaze met mine.
“I’ll wear it as proof she refused them,” I said. “Not as proof they owned her.”
“Good.”
I unpinned the brooch from inside my coat.
The silver wren caught the gray light and threw it back badly, a stubborn little flash against the room’s dimness. I held it in my palm for one breath. Then another.
My mother had carried this out of Zenith.
Zenith had kept the dress.
The Council had kept the record.
Quill had tried to return inheritance as if return could wash blood from the hand doing it.
I pinned the brooch to the bodice myself.
High on the left side, over my heart.
Openly.
By my hand.
Mine.
Rev watched my hands.
“Perfect” she said quietly.
Cosima looked at the brooch, then at the Mark on my wrist.
