Page 383 of Reign

I place it in front of her.

Evelyn opens it. She says nothing.

The first page turns. A small hum.

The second page. Her head tilts.

By the fourth, her brows have pulled together.

Oh my God.

She hates them.

Of course she hates them. She has spent decades creating collections that change the direction of entire seasons. I have spent the last several months drawing dresses between classes and pretending my bedroom is a studio.

She turns another page.

Another hum.

What does that one mean?

The first hum seemed neutral. The second may have been interested. This one sounded vaguely concerned.

Or hungry.

Maybe she hasn’t eaten.

Maybe I should ask.

No. I absolutely should not interrupt Evelyn St. Clair while she decides whether my life’s work belongs in a fire.

She reaches the final page and closes the portfolio.

I stop breathing.

Evelyn rests one hand over the cover and looks at me.

Then she smiles.

No teeth.

I have no idea whether that is good.

“Elena Amato, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Nice name.” Her fingers tap once against the portfolio. “Is that the name you want to use for your designs?”

The question catches me off guard.

“I assumed so. The way you use yours.”

Evelyn laughs.

Not cruelly. That somehow makes it more confusing.

“Oh,” she says. “You’re serious. You think that’s my name.”