Page 23 of Harbinger

If she knew the truth, she would forgive me. I know that. But telling any of them about what happened means explaining where I was this afternoon—and who I was with. Getting turned around and winding up in a shady part of the city? That might happen to anyone, but if I say something, Kieren will be in trouble. Making a wrong turn and warding off an attacker? That will definitely work Broderic up even more. Telling them Bishop saved me? Embarrassing. Maybe even humiliating. Especially after he marched me back to the palace like a lost child. But what happened in that bookshop keeps me silent.

Bishop has a secret.

Or maybe his position allows him to read about prohibited magic. If I confess the wrong thing, it will raise questions I can’t answer—and I have plenty of my own questions already.

So, I let Isidore fume over the dress instead. Never mind that there is no place back home for her to wear such ornate clothing. Most of our closet is worn and threadbare. We so rarely purchase new things that I can’t blame her for coveting them.

“You can have my gown from tonight when we get home.” I doubt I’ll ever find occasion to wear it again. The annual Harvest party we throw for the village is the closest thing to a formal affair that I attend, and the dress is far too extravagant for that.

Isidore perks up instantly regardless. “As long as you don’t mind.”

But her gaze travels to the shimmering gown lying on my bed and lingers like it’s a carrot on a stick.

“The other families probably have entire teams of maids.” Isidore sighs, securing another curl. This time without blunt force injury to my head. “Lady Carrera—”

“We manage fine on our own,” I stop her. Because at the end of this, we must keep managing without servants, whether my sister likes it or not.

She huffs a little as she begins weaving silver ribbons through my hair, creating an illusion of wealth that’s as delicate as spider silk—it will only hold until someone ruins it.

“Remember when Mom used to do our hair?” Isidore’s voice fades like she’s stepped back in time. “She had to tell us stories so we would sit still.”

“Yes.” The memory aches like a bone bruise, the kind of pain that you learn to live with but that never seems to fully heal. Some days I can’t even remember my mother’s face or her laugh. She’s been gone so long now that I mostly remember how she felt. Gentle and patient. Not rushing between duties like I always am, not trying to be sister and servant and substitute parent all at once.

“I wish I could remember her stories,” Isidore says softly.

So do I.

She clears her throat and takes a step back. “You’re finished.”

And just like that, the reminiscing is over, replaced by the usual call of duty.

My sister gathers the gown into her arms as I slip out of my robe. She fusses with my hair as she helps guide the dress over my head, clucking when I snag it on a pin. Silk and chiffon whisper against my skin, but she tugs and adjusts straps and fasteners into submission. Every time I reach to help, she swats my hand. I give up and let her treat me like I’m her doll.

Finally, she steps away, eyes gleaming. “Arden, look.”

I turn toward the mirror and freeze when I find a stranger staring back.

Her cheekbones are higher, and the freckles that dust the bridge of her nose have been softened under powder, making them look more like flecks of gold than the smattering of dots I’ve always resented. She’s elegant, the kind of person who belongs in the palace, not tramping through muddy fields.

Light catches the silver ribbons in my dark hair, making them twinkle like captured starlight. And the dress …

I’m having second thoughts about giving it to Isidore. When I tried it on in Damalis, I felt nothing. Now I see why my sister pushed me to choose it. The dress is the color of moonlight, and every inch of it, from the plunging sleeveless neckline to the sweeping skirt, is embroidered with tiny golden crystals. I hadn’t paid attention before, but now I see the gems form constellations in a subtle tribute to the Stars that will honor me tonight.

“I look—”

“Beautiful,” Isidore finishes. “Mom would be proud.”

Her words close my throat. I haven’t bothered with mirrors much lately. There’s too much else demanding attention, too many responsibilities that don’t care how I look or what I’m wearing. But tonight, for just this moment, I’m a person in a pretty dress with her whole life ahead of her.

Who miraculously did not die in an alley today.

Maybe I should be celebrating.

Isidore places a floor-length cape around my shoulders and fastens its gold chain across my collarbone. “You look like you belong here.” The admission is so soft that it feels like a secret.

But I know it’s a lie. I could never belong here, regardless of our family name.

“We’re running late.” Isidore blinks rapidly, but a single tear leaks out. She swipes it away. “The boys are waiting.”