“Tighter!” she pleads, despite being red-faced and breathless. “It fit a few hours ago.”
I yank on the strings with all my might.
“I need a potion. I hope you got a good one from that witch.”
“Maxine made it specially for you,” I say neutrally. It’s true. I can’t comment on the quality. I’m only the in-between who’s brave enough to step foot into Maxine’s hovel and bring back the precious brew.
I set out two bottles. The women clink vials and toss them back, coughing and sputtering as the spell takes effect. Cilla’s figure turns subtly curvaceous, her skin as smooth as a newborn’s. Stacia’s nose takes on a slightly straighter shape, subtly less snout-like. Her jawline firms. Her hair gleams like sunlight reflecting off water.
Yet there is an uncanny slipperiness to the effect. The illusion slips fractionally whenever they move. I always find this disturbing, as if they are wearing masks that don’t quite fit.
But for now, they’re happy with the results, and I am free to make my escape. Outside in the yard, Tremaine is hitching the tired horses to the carriage. I don’t have much time to prepare.
Cilla bursts out laughing when I come downstairs in my homemade gown, clutching my invitation in one gloved hand. Stacia blinks dumbly.
“Why is she wearing that?” she asks in confusion. Cilla clutches her waist and laughs harder.
Seething, I straighten my spine and head for the carriage.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Tremaine asks, smacking the door closed with one flat palm when I try to open it.
“To the ball,” I grit out, enunciating each syllable so there can be no mistake. “It is my right and my duty to attend.”
He steps back. Gathering all my strength and determination, I open it again. This time, he doesn’t stop me from stepping out into the night. Relief at the sight of our carriage sitting in the drive, ready to go, is indescribable. I just have to get to it, get inside, and then everything will be fine. I lift my skirt and stride determinedly down the path.
“Where did you get that dress?” Cilla dogs my steps with her head tipped to one side and her eyes narrowed into menacing slits.
“I made it.”
“Is that my skirt from six years ago?” Stacia’s eyes flare wide. “What did you do to the top?”
“She cut it off,” Cilla answers flatly. “She sewed it onto my nice pink bodice. I was saving that dress for my daughter.”
A daughter she’ll never have if she doesn’t marry. There’s only so far illicit magic can take you. With no wealth to be had from the Tremaine family, only a tumbledown estate—one that isn’t even hers, by rights—she has only her looks and her temperament to recommend her.
Scinder House should belong to me. It was my father’s birthright. Then my mother’s, by marriage. Had she not wed Tremaine, I’d own it free and clear. I’d have my dowry, too.
My stepfamily took everything from me, and yet my sisters can’t spare clothes they haven’t thought about in years?
Why am I helping these people?
Stacia moves first. Anger sparks in her eyes. The glamour responds accordingly, twisting her features into piglike fury.
“That wasmine,” she screeches, fisting my skirt and yanking it. Stitches rip. I clutch the torn fabric, resulting in a tug-of-war.
I can fix this. If we get in the carriage I can sew it back together during the ride…
Cilla launches herself at me.
“That ismyhair ribbon! And my top! How dare you go throughmythings and help yourself to my stuff!”
“Thief!” Stacia rages, her pudgy hands clawing at the delicate tulle. “Harlot!”
I stumble onto the grass, blindly dodging their blows. Losing track of where I am in relation to the carriage.
“Pretentious, stupid girl!” Cilla slaps my cheek, so stinging and startling that I forget to clutch my torn skirt. Cold air gusts over my thighs. Stacia yanks on her prize. The ground rushes up at me. I land face-down in a pile of horse manure and taste defeat.
I can’t hold back the tears any longer.
