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I glance at the rose sitting atop my nightstand, and their eyes follow as they pull back from the armoire.
“Ah. Peach.” A smirk tugs at their lips. “Gratitude. Appreciation. Sincerity. Friendship.”
They wink with the last word.
Heat blossoms beneath my rib cage. That is absolutely a peace offering. He’s making an effort. In his own way, he’s trying to draw me in instead of pushing me away.
Das Celyn steps aside and I move forward, rummaging through the armoire myself. Finally, I spot a beautiful gossamer gown—it’s bell-shaped and shimmery, gorgeous for how simple it is. I pull it free, and I realize it’s not only a pink tone like it first appears. When the light hits it, it shimmers, as if it’s changing colors, morphing into deeper pink with orange tones.
“Perfect,” I whisper.
They stare at me, scrutinizing my face and then nod. “Good choice.”
Before I can change into the dress, I let Das Celyn help me with my hair.
“You’re really good at this, you know.” That’s as close as I can get to thanking them.
“I used to do hair and makeup for the courtesans in the city,” Das Celyn says so quietly I almost didn’t hear them. “When I was young.”
“Do you ever miss it?”
“Yes,” they whisper.
And their talent shows, because they’ve outdone themselves.
When I glance into the mirror, my lungs tighten with disbelief. I look… stunning.
The dress has a fitted bodice, with small beads decorating my bust and emphasizing the curves there, before flaring out with a fun, gossamer skirt that reaches just above my knees. Most of my ashy curls are loose and down my back, but each side has a section braided back from my face, tying together loosely in the back.
My fingers ghost over the spot where my mark usually is—now covered by Das Celyn’s cosmetics. It’s the first time I’ve seen myself without the Tradeling tattoo, and it brings a swarm of feelings. Relief, gratitude, pride—at what I’ve overcome. I don’t miss the mark by any means, and will gladly keep it covered for the night, but suddenly I realize that that marking no longer owns me.
I own it.
It’s my badge of strength.
“That’s a swell color with your complexion,” Das Celyn says, pulling me from my thoughts.
I nod, still choking up at my reflection. I’ve never looked—or felt—so lovely in all my life.
They add a bit of kohl to my lash lines.
“Don’t cry now, you’ll smudge it,” Das Celyn says, brushing a bit of powder onto my cheeks to finish off the look.
I feel like a princess. Not that I ever desired being one—if anything, I’d rather be a warrior like Viv—but there’s nothing wrong with appreciating a beautiful dress as much as a deadly sword. I like that here I can have both.
I don’t have to be just one thing or the other. I can be a sweaty, bruised mess in the morning, and a clean, pretty lady in the evening.
I also appreciate that nothing is forced upon me; if I hadn’t liked this dress so deeply, no one would force me to wear it. I could’ve refused the purple dress. I could’ve stuck up for myself.
The fae push me, but not to break me. To build me.
Quickly slipping into a pair of matching pale pink flats, I follow Das Celyn out to the gardens, eager to experience Ostara firsthand with the fae.
As I glance down at my dress again, I realize why I’m so fond of it: I look like a sunset rose.
thirty
The Mercy He Needs
