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“What…” Penbrook’s lip twitched. “What mayhem is this?”
Fia scowled.
Oh, and such a devilish look glittered in Penbrook’s eyes. “And here I thought stripes were the worst of your fashion choices.”
“I didn’t choose this.”
“One would hope not.”
“You’re not allowed to enjoy this!”
“Too late.” He twirled his finger. “Spin around. Let me see the whole thing.”
“Absolutely not,” she hissed, grappling for the door so she could slam it in his face, not liking the look of him so much anymore.
“Wait,” he laughed, a gentle rolling sound that softened his teasing. “Let me help you fix it. I’m good at this sort of thing.” A gesture at his own well-fitted coat unnecessarily emphasized his point.
With her spell woven into the threads, Fia had been certain the dress was beyond repair, at least by her own magic—and she hadn’t wanted to call for Penbrook, as that would have resulted in an embarrassing moment just like this one. Apparently, there was no avoiding it.
“Have your way with the dress, then,” she said, setting her teeth.
Penbrook looked at her for one excruciatingly long moment, as if he first wanted to ingrain this image of her in his head for later recollection, and then he flicked one hand, calling up a spell. Days ago, she had wondered what it felt like to stand under the rain of his illusions, but this magic was stronger than what he’d used to change Norie Belvedere’s hair from blond to rose. He wasn’t masking her dress with a fleeting trick—he was remaking it, and it felt like standing beneath a storm that had yet to reach the ground. The air around her trembled with a quiet energy, and when the spell fell, Fia shivered at its whispery touch.
Swiftly, the dress transformed, all those bows unfurling and abundant skirts rippling, the one puffy sleeve wilting until nothing was left, the slender one whisking away, leaving her shoulders bare. For a moment the golden dress looked almost as it had before her spell had gone wrong, and she was happy enough to have its simple design returned to her. But Penbrook didn’t stop there. He tailored the bodice so it fit her curves exactly, like an embrace in which she could breathe, and the skirts lengthened by a fraction so the dress just swept the floor instead of hovering unfashionably above it. The pattern on the lace shifted before her eyes, the angles swirling into more delicate shapes, the weave finer than spider silk, indicative of Fantillian lace.
He’d woven subtle alterations, and yet, they made all the difference. It had become a true gown, one in which she still felt like herself.
“Do you like it?” He looked so boyish when he asked, this magnificent magician who made no assumptions about how others saw his work even when the quality of his craft was beyond measure.
“It’s beautiful.” Her fingers traced over the skirt, and she glanced up in surprise. “And so soft.” Just like all the clothing Penbrook wore—because he must have spelled that too, indulging in comfort.
“Beautiful,” he repeated.
“Oh.” Less a word than a breath. Maybe Fia didn’t know how to accept a compliment either.
Penbrook cleared his throat, stepping back, as if he realized he’d been looking at her, not the gown, when he’d spoken. “That is… I mean…” Then he narrowed his eyes, forgetting to be flustered. “Is that a gargoyle around your neck?”
Fia’s fingers smoothed the black ribbon at her throat, trailing down to the charm resting warm on her chest, its pulse matched to her own. “Yes. My mother gave it to me, and I never take it off. Usually, it’s just tucked away beneath my sweater.”
“What a hideous fellow,” he said with the same fondness he’d had greeting Finnick as a dignified creature. The corner of the gargoyle’s thin lip curled a vicious fraction. “And fitting too, if you consider it’s protecting you and all the spells you must have swirling in your head. Like the gargoyles defending a library’s archives.”
“I’ve never thought of it that way before.” She did not tell him she’d always imagined the charm guarding her heart.
Wanting to avoid that conversation entirely, Fia turned for her satin slippers and hurried her feet into them. And just in time too, as the clomping of hooves rang down the street before stopping outside the spellshop.
“That must be Andromeda with the carriage,” Penbrook observed, and they dashed down the stairs to meet her.
CHAPTER 18
Although there were a few different roads that wound up from Wakesend through Harrow and Glory to Bramble, the northernmost district in Trivoris was all rolling hills and whispering meadows and sprawling estates, and sometimes you might follow a path that abruptly ended, leading nowhere at all. Tonight, as guests made their way to the Willows, they stayed on the more traveled roads, and as Fia looked out the window of the hired coach, she couldn’t help thinking the line of carriages rounding the bend ahead came together like a fancy parade.
Leaning back in her seat, she could almost pretend they were attending the Bramble Ball like anyone else—to mingle and gossip, to dance and drink and eat little cakes, to wear a pretty suit or gown and flirt with whoever they wanted. Not to hunt down some ghastly grimoire wreaking havoc on Trivoris.
Yet despite the enormous risks they were taking, the thought that The Book of Ribs really might be there, that she’d soon have it in her possession and then take it onward to Thistledown, brought a sense of relief. Though it was much too early to be celebrating anything.
Especially when her two partners in this attempted theft of an already thieved book might fall asleep on their feet.
Or while riding in the carriage.
