“What?” I ask, the words not making sense. All the fight drains out of me.
“What were you expecting? Did you think I brought you here for some kind of blood oath, or perhaps a sacrifice? Oh, I know—maybe we were going to reach into the underworld and summon cruel spirits from the pits of hell to stalk the Witchery. Or maybe we were going to plant horrible nightmares in the minds of the mainlanders to make them turn on you for good. Or maybe—”
“Can you do that?” I ask, cutting him off, completely horrified.
Wolfe looks at me as if my face has turned inside out. “Of course not! My god, what are they teaching you over there?”
I shrug, not finding the thought nearly as outlandish as he does. “They don’t teach us much about the inner workings of dark magic; it leaves a lot of room for our imaginations to run wild, I suppose.” Wolfe closes his eyes and takes a long, deep breath when I use the phrase dark magic. “Sorry, high magic.”
“Mortana, I swear—”
“I said I was sorry,” I say, holding my hands up.
There’s a knock on the door, and Galen pokes his head in. “We’re about to start.”
Wolfe nods, and the door shuts, leaving us in private once again.
“You should get ready,” Wolfe says.
“I’m not staying. This is an intimate, special thing. I don’t want to intrude.”
“You aren’t intruding. But you are running late,” he says.
Flustered, I look down at my clothing. “I don’t have time to get ready.”
“You don’t need time. You need magic.”
“But it’s after dark,” I say, hearing how ridiculous the words sound as they leave my lips. Music starts to play behind the door, and my heart beats faster.
“Mortana, you’ve pulled in the tide and commanded the wind. I think you can use a little magic to get ready.”
“Will you do it for me?” I ask, not wanting to break another rule. I’ve already done so many unthinkable things, but I don’t have to keep saying yes. “Please.”
Wolfe looks at me with a frustrated expression, but he nods. “Okay.”
Before I can even say thank you, Wolfe’s magic surrounds me, smoothing my hair and brushing makeup over my face. He steps out of the study and returns moments later carrying a dress.
“I’ll wait outside while you change,” he says.
I take the dress and a long silver necklace slides out from the fabric. “Is this for me to wear as well?” I ask, holding it up.
“Yes.” It’s the only answer he offers before leaving again.
Once the door is closed, I slip into the gray lace dress. It comes down to my calves and has fitted long sleeves that bell slightly at my wrists, and I walk to the ornate gold mirror behind Galen’s desk. My eye shadow is dark and smoky, my lips are a deep crimson, and my hair falls loosely down my back. The necklace Wolfe gave me is ornate and silver with an oval black gemstone in the center. The back is perforated, intricate filigree that is somehow delicate and bold at the same time, and I put it on over my head and let my fingers brush the smooth surface of the stone.
“Come in,” I say when there’s a soft knock on the door.
Wolfe walks in and stops when he sees me, staring as if I’m a meteor shower on a clear night. I shift uncomfortably and walk back to the mirror.
I’ve always been taught to keep my makeup light and soft. Natural, as my mother puts it. I’m not used to seeing myself like this, but instead of balking at my reflection or asking Wolfe to tone it down, I’m totally entranced. I love it.
“I can change it if you want,” Wolfe says. His voice is thick and rough, and heat rises in my core at the sound.
“I like it,” I say, turning to face him. “What do you think?”
“I think…” he starts, then stops, shoving a hand through his hair. He looks frustrated again, and he shakes his head. “I think you look perfect.”
“Then why do you sound so upset?”
He walks over to me and gently places a moonflower behind my ear. “Because I don’t want you to look perfect in my world. I don’t want you to fit.”
“I don’t,” I say, forcing the words from my mouth. My throat is dry, my voice barely audible.
“Look again,” he says, turning my face to the mirror.
I look for a single breath, then close my eyes and turn away. I don’t want to fit here, either.
We’re about to leave when a large painting above the fireplace catches my eye. I must have missed it on my way in, so distracted by the grimoires, but it’s breathtaking. It’s a portrait of a woman with long, dark hair cascading down her sides and a crown of moonflowers on her head. She wears a fitted silver gown with a large black pendant resting against her chest. There is a soft, contented smile on her face, and her hands are folded lightly in her lap.