Page 58 of Spellwright

But—to Fia’s great relief—her reflection appeared just as it should.

She swished the skirts, loving the way the layers looked when she twirled. She wouldn’t change that. But maybe she could make the ribbons a little wider, the silk a little glossier, the lace a little less frayed from all its wear. So determined, she called up the spell she’d written for one of her customers months ago—a seamstress who was exceedingly skilled with technique but admittedly lacked flair when it came to design—and envisioned her dress with the modest embellishments she hoped for. It was a simple spell. One she could manage if she was careful.

Golden dust, the very color of her dress, sparkled up from her fingertips, and Fia danced in its falling embers, watching as the silk smoothed its tattered edges, as the ribbons went from dull to gleaming in their crisscross pattern around her waist. The skirts became fuller too—not something she’d meant to do, but they looked pretty falling from her hips, even if they were still a bit too short. She spun again.

And with that last rotation, her magic slipped from her grasp.

The ribbons multiplied in number, gliding down her dress and tying themselves into horrid bows that bunched up the lace. Layer upon layer, her skirts ballooned, growing so wide, she feared she wouldn’t be able to fit through the door. One slim strap of her dress remained exactly as it was before, while the other puffed up like an enormous flower, blooming so large that when she turned her head to the side, she couldn’t see past it.

Of course it was at that moment—her breaths heaving with how tightly the ribbons bound her—that a knock fell on the door.

Penbrook’s untroubled voice came from the other side. “Aren’t you ready?”

“Not yet!” Fia cried, frantic he’d stumble into the room and see her wearing this atrocity she’d created. He would never let her hear the end of it. “Go away!”

She tugged at the material, wanting nothing more than to claw it off, but it was like trying to peel off skin. The dress had built itself so snugly around her body, she couldn’t unwind a single thread.

On the other side of the door, Penbrook laughed, then reminded her, “Time’s ticking.” His footsteps retreated.

Fia deflated with a sigh, plucking at the ribbons and bows, trying to convince herself they weren’t as ugly as she believed them to be. After all, it was just a dress, and it would be fine. If she pinned up her hair and made up her face, no one would care about the dress. No one would notice.

She attacked her hair with her brush, her face with a dash of color, but when she looked in the mirror, her reflection told an entirely different story.

Everyone would notice.

Fia flung herself at the door, opening it only wide enough to stick her head out. If Penbrook only saw her face, now done up with pinched-pink cheeks and rosy lips and kohl-lined lids, and her hair, pinned up on each side with a golden butterfly, the rest falling in loose curls down her back, perhaps he wouldn’t guess she’d made a mess of her dress.

“Penbrook?” she called.

Wearing a suit coat the color of the forest at night with a trio of silver starbursts embroidered on the collar, he stepped out from the depths of his room, looking polished as he always did, and yet somehow more like himself than ever before. Which seemed a strange thing, but felt absolutely true.

“Why are you hiding behind the door?” His brow hitched in amusement as he took in her wide-eyed face and door-clutched fingers, the only parts of her exposed.

“I… I told you. I’m not ready yet.”

Her grip tightened. It felt like she was seeing him for the first time, and also the thousandth. Fia knew Penbrook better now—had become familiar with his half smile, his well-behaved hair, the softness that settled in the darkness of his eyes and the low notes of his voice, whether he was saying something sarcastic or something kind.

He had a face she very much liked.

Struck by the unwanted thought, she stumbled, even though she was standing still. With all those layers of fabric twisting around her legs as she faltered, the door cracked open a little wider. The edge of her skirt pushed into the gap, an alarming number of bows popping into view.

Tugging it back, she croaked, “Can you grab my scissors?”

She’d cut herself out of this dress if she had to.

Penbrook’s eyes flicked away from her own, caught by something over her shoulder. No, by something on her shoulder. That one puffy sleeve refused to lie flat even as she tried to smooth it with one desperate hand.

Instead of leaving to hunt down the pair of scissors she kept in the shop, he came closer to her door. Set his hand flat to the wood. Their faces were less than an arm’s span apart.

He grinned. “What’s going on in there?”

“Nothing.”

A few lingering bits of golden dust floated through the crack, betraying her use of magic.

“Ah, you’ve been poofing again.” He added an annoyingly silly pfff sound.

There was no point in denying it, but still she waved the dust away, accidentally releasing the door as she did so. That was all it took for her overgrown skirts to burst their way past the threshold, revealing Fia in every hideous inch of her dress.