4. Little Black Dress

"Ican't wear this. Any of this." Hands clenched around the fluffy robe Baka gave me after my bath, I eye the dresses she laid out for me. Just looking at them heats my cheeks.

Baka's face creases. She empties the tub the same way she filled it—with a single snap of her fingers. "You're young, seedling. Enjoy it."

What the crops does this have to do with my age?"It's…obscene."

"It's pretty."

I press my lips together, hands on my hips, no closer to winning this argument than I was five minutes ago. "Is there another option? Can I keep my own clothes?"

She shakes her wrinkled blue head with a grimace. "Ye'd stick out like a sore thumb, and this banquet is expected to hold up the decorum of the court."

A crude, vulgar decorum—but this is another test. I straighten my spine and consider the four dresses again, feeling like I'm playing an impish version of eenie, meenie, miney, moe.

The yellow one has no sleeves whatsoever, but its long silk train makes it the most conservative choice. The skirt of the empire-waist, green dress is so short that it would leave my thighs bare, and I fail to mask a cringe at the thought. The black one has too much cleavage. The white one is all holes and lace, and the bridal color unnerves me. No. Definitely not white.

"Let's try the yellow one," I finally say.

"A classic."

I put it on, and the prickly crinoline scratches my thighs. "Where are the socks?" I'm not used to the friction of fabric on my bare legs.

Baka raises her brows, both of them thick as branches. "Socks? You mean the ones you were wearing? They couldn't have been comfortable."

Tears sting my eyes. I look exactly like one of the courtesans in Esme's book. Is the whole night planned around my public humiliation? Will I be mocked? Bullied? Assaulted?

I almost tear the dress off, feeling hideous and cheap. "Bring the black one, please."

"Brave choice," Baka cheers.

I'm not sure who I resent more, the Shadow King for forcing me into these clothes, or Father, for selling me out in the first place. It's certainly not Baka's fault. If I have to stand in front of the Shadow Court in nothing but a scrap of fabric that counts as a dress in this evil land, I will not let them revel in the certainty that they rattled me.

I work the dark dress over my head. Layers upon layers of black and gray chiffon lick the floor, the skirt not as scandalous as the neckline… Two strips of fabric run over my shoulders down my front, leaving the path between my breasts completely bare, almost to my navel.

Depending on how the light catches it, the one layer of chiffon covering my breasts becomes almost see-through and reveals the roundness of them. Heat pools in my gut, but I find solace in the fact that the color compliments my skin. I no longer want to punch the mirror, and a heavy sense of acceptance settles in my chest.

I shall endure.

"The satin pumps are right here." Baka deposits a feminine pair of black shoes near my feet. "I gave you the shortest heel I could find."

I slip my feet inside them, happy to find a comfortable fit despite their eerie appearance.

"And we should leave your hair down." Baka releases my white blonde hair from the net, removing the clips and ribbons until it flows down to my waist. She uses a golden brush to comb through the knotted, frizzy strands, and they quickly become smooth and perfectly shaped.

My jaw drops. "That's sorcery."

"Welcome to Faerie." On a mischievous chortle, Baka hangs the discarded yellow dress back in the wardrobe. She should burn it, really, but I bite my tongue not to say so and look at myself in the mirror again. I run my fingers through my hair with a sense of wonder. I haven't been permitted to wear it down outside the confines of my bedroom since I turned fourteen, and the absence of the clips and net is…freeing. I wish I could run outside with the wind in my hair like I did when I was a child.

Baka fluffs it one last time, the small lift of her hands somehow giving it more volume. "Lovely," she says, pleased with herself, before she glances at the small clock on the dresser. "It's almost time. I have to go. May the eyes of the Seven shine upon you, seedling."

She flies back the way she came, as though it's the most natural thing to do. The mirror ripples in her wake like a pond under a clear summer sky. My nails click over solid glass as I test the feel of the reflective surface, but I sense no path or magic to speak of.

How does it work, exactly?

Curious, I trace the bronze trim with my fingers. The glass dims, taken over by a human-shaped shadow, and I jolt away from the apparition. The budding elation fluttering in my belly condenses into stone.

Nightmares prowl from the other side of the mirror.

This is supposed to be my bedroom, but if monsters can stalk my every move and come in and out of the glass at will, I don't see how I'll get a whiff of sleep.

A soft knock draws my attention away from whatever evil lurks inside the sceawere, and I bring my loose waves to my front to cover my breasts before inching open the bedroom door.

The dark man from before stands in front of me, his mask still firmly planted over his face.

"You lied to me." I cross my arms, shielding myself further from his blank, metallic gaze.

Surely, he can see me, can't he?

One corner of his mouth curls up, the motion small and yet perfectly rehearsed. "You assumed I was the Shadow King. Was it so wrong of me not to disabuse you of that notion?" The dark man turns on his heels, and I follow him down the hallway.

Fae can't outright lie, but they certainly can lie by omission.

The warm light of the torches hanging from the ceiling reflects off the man's black and white mask as he leads me through the labyrinth of the Shadow Court. Each tight corner reveals a new stretch of expansive, dark tunnels, the carpeted hallways seemingly carved through solid stone, most of them slanting upward. In Demeter, it would be unthinkable for a maiden to be escorted through darkened passageways by a man that isn't part of her immediate family, and I play nervously with my fingers, keeping a good five feet of empty space between us.

A couple of blue, wingless sprites carrying linens and burlap sacks cross our path. They pause as we draw near and bow respectfully to my guide—a lord or knight of some kind, I presume—before resuming their journey. I peek over my shoulder to check for a scar or a welt left by their cut wings, but their backs are too bumpy for me to be sure.

"What are you doing?" the dark man asks softly, his head tilted to the side. "The sprites are loyal, trustworthy creatures, I assure you. You do not need to fear them. Ever."

"I was looking for their wings," I admit, leaving out my fear that they might have been cut off, like Baka briefly mentioned.

"Some sprites are born without them," the man explains in a soothing tone, making me think he understood exactly what I was asking.

My spine relaxes a bit, and we resume our ascension until we reach a thick gold-plated door at the end of the next corridor. The Fae holds it open for me. "If I may…you look beautiful, kitten."

I feel his gaze roam over my naked back as I walk past him, and my cheeks flush. "Thank you."

The wide room on the other side possesses all the bells and whistles of a lavish banquet hall and is situated a few stories above ground. Large checkered panels allow for a hot and heavy summer night breeze to flow in, the air thick with humidity. The sweet aromas of ginger spices, lavender, and incense fill my nostrils.

"Is it still summer here?" I ask, the pleasant atmosphere soothing my nerves.

"Late spring, actually, and I'm already sick of the heat. The palace is much more comfortable in autumn. Seasons pass quicker here than in your world, so you'll see for yourself soon enough."

Garlands of lanterns flicker above our heads, and lush gardens spread beyond the edge of the open-air balcony adjacent to the banquet hall, the details of them hidden in darkness.

Men and women wearing masquerade masks sip on crystal flutes and chat in small groups around the hall and balcony, the setup similar to a Demeter banquet if not for the outrageous apparel. I thought the Shadow King meant to set me apart, but my dress is on par with what the other women are wearing. The excited chatter doubles at our arrival, and quite a few courtiers crane their neck around to steal glances at us.

Four tables are set in the dimly lit reception hall. The biggest one forms a half-circle that sits about a dozen patrons and faces what I assume to be the king's spot, a table furnished with a padded black and gold throne. The two remaining tables are set at the ends of the half circle and are perpendicular to the king's, with three seats each. A humongous frameless mirror looms behind the throne, stretching the entire length of the wall.

My dark chaperone picks two crystal flutes off a floating tray and hands me one, but I shake my head. Father said no wine. "None for me, thank you."

"Your loss." He gulps down the extra flute at my refusal and sets it back on the tray. The floating drinks fly from group to group under my awestruck stare, and I'm about to ask how it works when a short man rushes over to us.

A forest-green jacket stretches over his round belly, the buttons threatening to burst. A silver mask covers his eyes but reveals a plump, red nose and sun-battered skin. "One, it's been too long."

One? One what?

The dark man nods in greeting. "Good evening, Effias."

"By the spindle, the seedlings are certainly gorgeous this year—if not numerous." Effias grins a happy, effable smile. "Best wishes, my dear. We're all counting on you." He presses his pink, swollen hands together before facing the dark knight again. "Give your brothers my best wishes. And remind Three that he still owes me a horse."

Wait… Who the crops is named One?

One—if that's in fact his name—pulls out a chair for me at one of the three-seater tables in a perfect picture of gallantry, but I hesitate. The copper tableware shines under the glow of the lanterns, the ominous greeting from Effias still stuck in my brain. What is a seedling? And why would this Fae count on me?

One abandons me to my fate and strolls to the balcony, spreading his arms. "Welcome, High Fae of Sinistra, Umbra, Sombra, Fantasmagorie, and Nocturna. Please take your seats. The feast is about to begin."

I sit on the edge of the chair, and a red-haired woman slumps into the seat next to mine. "Hey, I'm Mara. I'm a seedling, too." She's not wearing a mask, and freckles pepper her young, open face.

A man with dark black skin peers over her shoulder. "And I'm James. Is it true you're from the old world?"

"Yes, are you from the new?" I examine the two newcomers with interest, their excitement contagious. They're wearing similar fashions as me, seemingly unaffected by Mara's bare thighs and strapless dress—or my own see-through cleavage.

"Yep. Fresh out of Denver, and James is Canadian," Mara says.

James nods and sits next to her, our table now full.

It must be the name of her kingdom."I'm from Demeter. I'm Nell."

"Nice to meet you, Nell. I didn't think people from the old world bleached their hair. It's really pretty. God, I'm famished." Mara snaps her fingers, and a floating tray dashes over to our table. The crystal flutes clank together, and she slides two of them next to her empty wine glass.

"What do you mean?" I ask, confused about her comment on my hair. Even though she used the word pretty, it didn't sound like a compliment.

She raises one of the crystal flutes to her red-painted lips, her attention fixed on something else. "Who's the hunk?"

My brows furrow. "Excuse me?" Some of the words blurting out of her mouth make no sense.

"The tall Fae with the black and white mask?" She waves in the dark man's general direction. "Who is he?"

"His name is One—I think."

Her gaze roams over his body, and she licks her lips. "Get me some of that…a swimmer's body and a chin dimple? I'm hooked."

My jaw drops. I'm shocked to hear a woman speak so plainly about a man.

James' shoulders wiggle underneath his white jacket. "I don't know…the claw marks on his mask set me on edge."

I nod in agreement and spread the cloth napkin over my knees out of habit. Most of the guests are seated by now, and food magically appears on our plates. Greasy, fragrant aromas rise from a steaming piece of meat—a bird of some kind—and an array of root vegetables.

Saliva fills my mouth, but I resist the urge to taste the food. I've eaten a large breakfast today, so I can skip this meal like Father advised. Mara and James dig in without a second thought, and I observe the cheery High Fae instead, each of their masks unique and mesmerizing.

Men and women laugh in earnest along the half-crescent table, patting each other's backs and leaning into their neighbors without a shred of self-consciousness.

After a few minutes, Mara ties her red hair back in a bun at the nape of her neck with a tiny, round piece of fabric, and elbows my side. "Why aren't you eating?"

I shrug. Her table manners rub me the wrong way. "Mortals shouldn't eat Faerie food."

"What are you going to do? Starve yourself to death? We live in Faerie now," Mara says with her mouth full, unapologetically stuffing herself with the second serving that appeared on her empty plate.

Has she moved to Faerie for good? Of her own accord? What the crops is going on here?

"I'd rather ease into it."

Mara pouts at my answer, and James gazes nervously into his wine.

Glasses and cutlery clink in a rhythmic melody throughout dinner, but One doesn't touch his food, either.

As dessert is served, the dark Fae is still sitting alone at the identical table on the other side of the room, and the two empty seats next to him tickle my curiosity.

He's wearing a mask, so it doesn't make much sense, but I could swear he's playing hide and seek with me. Every time I glance over to him, his impassive, covered face is angled to the High Fae, but whenever I look away, I feel the pressure of his gaze on me.

I test my theory a couple more times, certain it can't be a coincidence, and clutch the cloth napkin in my lap in frustration. I'm unable to catch him with his mask angled in my direction, but I'm almost sure…

Finally, I raise my wine glass between us to stare at him through the amber-tinted liquid on the guise of rating its color, hue, and transparency. The subterfuge allows for a long, unabashed look, and this time, his lips quirk up in the shadow of a smile.

Before I can decide whether to smile back, a sprite flies to the king's table and clears his throat. With slender arms, thick brows, and pink eyes, he's very similar to Baka, and his brown skin is textured like the bark of an ancient tree.

He reads from the parchment in his hands with an air of ceremony, "All rise for His Majesty the King."