One Salt Sea: An October Daye Novel (7 page)

Much as I wanted to spend an hour or two in the shower, letting it work out the knots from my lesson with Sylvester—and my “lessons” with Connor—I had things to do. I rinsed off quickly, turning off the water and slipping on my bathrobe before opening the bathroom door.

May was waiting for me in the hall, an amused expression on her face. “Hi,” she said.

“Hey, you’re home.” I brushed past her. “Bathroom’s free.”

“That’s nice.” She folded her arms, mock-glaring at me. “Jazz and I found Stacy sitting on the doorstep when we got home. You’re a
bad
friend.”

“How long ago was that?” I asked, before raising my voice to shout, “You’re early!”

“I know!” Stacy called back.

I rolled my eyes. “This is going to be fun. Did she tell you why she’s here?”

“No, but Luna did when she called me to come pick up your dress. You’re going to be the prettiest princess at the
whole
ball.” May dodged my ineffective swipe and flounced off toward the kitchen. She was a good flouncer. I glared at her retreating back, secretly relieved. I didn’t want to explain the situation with Stacy in the apartment. It would worry her, and worrying Stacy is never a good idea.

Stacy was waiting in my room. She’d cleared the clothes off my bed and floor while she waited, putting them away with a precision most of my wardrobe hadn’t experienced since leaving Old Navy.

She was eyeing my underwear drawer when I arrived. “Toby, I think some of these predate synthetic fabrics.”

“Hello to you, too,” I said dryly. “You’re here to do my hair, not mock my taste in clothes.”

“I’m here to help you get ready, sweetie, and that means doing both.” She moved to hug me, ignoring the fact that I was still dripping. Then she jabbed a finger at my desk chair, which had been dragged in front of the bedroom mirror. “You, sit. Your hair and I need to have a long overdue chat.”

“Is this going to hurt?” Having three daughters has helped Stacy keep up with modern fashions, and she has enough of a grasp of pureblood trends to know what is and isn’t acceptable. She was the best possible person to help me get ready. This did nothing to change my utter hatred of having my hair done.

“Probably.” Stacy pushed me into the chair, positioning herself behind me. “You need to take better care of your hair,” she said, plucking the towel from around my neck and beginning to dry my hair, one section at a time.

“Why? I’ve got you to do it for me.”

“I’m serious. You’re only in your fifties. What’re you going to do when you’re two hundred? Wear a wig?”

“It’s a thought,” I said, closing my eyes. “Think I could get one styled like yours?”

Stacy scoffed and kept drying. Both of us knew I was only half-kidding. Stacy and I are both brunettes, but her hair is an elegant chestnut, while mine is a faded ash-brown shot through with gold highlights. Her hair is thick and well-behaved; mine is stick-straight and fine enough to make anything more complex than a ponytail hard. Really, Stacy’s hair goes with the rest of her, because she can stop traffic with a smile. I can stop traffic, too. I just tend to do it by crashing my car into something.

“So they’re inviting you to diplomatic events now?” Stacy dropped the towel and started unsnarling my sodden hair with something that felt like a pick. I kept my eyes closed. “I wondered when they’d start showing sense.”

“I’m sure they’re just inviting me to even out the number of place settings.”

“Still, maybe you’ll add a touch of sanity to the proceedings.”

“Ha, ha,” I deadpanned.

Stacy laughed—a much more genuine sound. “Did I tell you that Anthony’s having his first slumber party next week?”

“No,” I said, relaxing and tilting my head back. “Tell me all about it.”

I let her words wash over me, concentrating on them rather than on the light, constant tugging at my hair. It was soothing, almost like the slumber parties
we
used to have, back when we were both teenagers, and the world was a much simpler place.

“I’m going to let this dry a little while I do your makeup,” she said, pulling her hands away. I heard jars clink as she got her makeup kit, and had to suppress the urge to bolt. “Have you seen the dress you’ll be wearing?”

“I was thinking I’d skip it. The Queen wants to see my new sweatshirt, right?” Stacy pinched me. I yelped. “Quit it! No, I haven’t seen it. Have you?”

“Yes. I think you’ll like it.” The jars rattled again before she started rubbing something on my eyelids. “I’m doing a simple, classic, smoky eye. Try not to smear it too much, okay? ‘Raccoon’ isn’t a good look for anybody.”

“I’ll try,” I said, resisting the urge to peek. That way lies madness, and getting a mascara wand in the eye.

Stacy worked for almost twenty minutes before she made a faint sound of approval. “Almost done,” she said, dusting her brush across my nose and forehead.

“And thank Titania for that,” I said fervently, as she went back to working on my hair.

“You
should
be thanking Titania,” said Stacy, spraying something that smelled like roses and cotton flowers into the air above my head. “If it weren’t for her, we’d be doing this the mortal way, and we’d be here for at least another hour.”

“Oh,
goody
,” I muttered.

“Toby!” called May, from the living room. “Connor’s here!”

“He can’t have her yet!” Stacy called back. “We’re busy!”

“Got it!”

Stacy grabbed a hairpin, twisting a lock of my hair up and back before spraying more of the cotton flower mist on my head. “That does sort of beg the question—are you sure you should be taking Connor? I mean, one minute he’s breaking up with you because Selkies don’t date changelings—”

“That wasn’t his fault!” I protested.

“—the next, he’s married, and now he’s single and suddenly he’s all over you again? I don’t want to see you get hurt, Toby.”

“Stacy . . .”

“It just seems like a lot of things ‘weren’t his fault.’ ” She gave my hair a hard tug. I winced. “Hold still while I pin this.”

“Yes, boss,” I muttered.

Her fingers tugged and darted, grabbing loops of hair and pinning them in place. Finally, she patted my shoulder. “Okay. We’re done.”

“Yippee.” I stood, rolling my head to ease the stiffness in my neck. Then I took a good look at my reflection and stopped, blinking.

My makeup was subtle, simple, and somehow perfect, calling attention to my best features while playing down my worst ones. My hair was pinned in sleek curls, held back with carved ash pins. The curls moved naturally when I turned my head, but fell right back to their original positions, not a hair going out of place.

“It should hold as long as you don’t get in a fight.” Stacy appeared behind me in the mirror, smiling. “I assume you won’t get in a fight?”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Good. Do you like it?”

“I do.” I risked a nod. Again, my hair moved without becoming disheveled. That was nothing short of a miracle.

“Even better. It should stay intact until morning, as long as you don’t get it wet.”

“No fights and no skinny-dipping; check.” I turned to face her. “Now, since my fashion sense clearly isn’t acceptable, where’s that dress?”

“I thought you’d never ask.” Stacy’s smile turned impish. “May, we’re ready!”

The bedroom door swung open and May stepped inside, something black draped across her arms. “Hey, Toby. Wow, Stacy, you made her look like a real girl.” With a wink, she added, “That means I like your hair.”

“I got that,” I said, eyeing the fabric she was holding. “Please tell me there’s more dress there than I think there is.”

She thrust her arms out toward me. “Luna said you’d say that. She told me to remind you that part of the purpose of a diplomatic event is looking impressive, which you can’t do in any of the things you pretend are fashionable. Now get dressed.”

“I . . .”

“Get dressed.”

I know when I’m beat. I sighed, and took the dress. It was light enough to seem weightless. I paused, frowning. “Is this spider silk?”

“Yes.”

Spider silk is rare, even by Faerie standards. It’s also unbelievably expensive. Most of it is purchased by purebloods, to wear to events like this one. The lower classes can get away with attending formal events in everyday clothes masked by illusion; members of the nobility are expected to hold themselves to a higher standard, even if they have to sell the farm to do it. People can tell when you’re wearing the real thing and not an illusion—at least, that’s what my mother always said. She lied about a lot of things, but I’ve never had reason to doubt her in the arenas of diplomacy or fashion.

Aware that I was holding a baronial fortune in my arms, I gave the dress a careful look. It looked black at first glance, but shimmered with patches of gold and silver when the light hit it. The colors shifted seamlessly, and the effect was dismayingly reminiscent of moonlight moving across calico scales.

“Try it,” said May, snapping me out of my contemplation. I raised my head, cocking an eyebrow. She met my eyes without hesitation. “It was Amandine’s.”

I stared at her.

May offered a small smile. “Raiding your mom’s closet is a time-honored tradition, right? Come on, Stacy.” She turned, stepping out of the room, with Stacy right behind her.

“We’ll be in the living room,” said Stacy, and closed the door.

“Right,” I said, to the empty room.

The idea of Luna raiding Amandine’s closet was new and unsettling. Mother’s tower has never needed much in the way of security—it’s self-aware enough to keep out anyone who hasn’t been explicitly invited. As far as I knew, neither Mother nor I ever gave Luna permission to go inside. Oh, well. There’d be time to worry about that later, after we survived the night.

I shrugged off my robe, pulled on a pair of panties, and stepped into the dress. It was sleeveless, with a straight-cut neckline that came straight out of the 1950s. It was also several sizes too big, hanging around me like a tent.

That was easily fixed. I held the dress up with one hand as I reached behind me with the other, gathering the fabric against the small of my back. The spider silk writhed like a living thing as the dress tightened around me, becoming form-fitting to the point of being practically painted on. There are
reasons
the stuff is so expensive.

“Better,” I said, letting go and turning to look at my reflection.

One of the nice things about spider silk is the way it conforms to the lines of the body. The dress fit like it was made for me, outlining every curve I have, and a few I hadn’t been entirely aware of. The straight-cut neckline somehow managed to be flattering, largely, I think, because the top was tight enough to make a bra an unnecessary extravagance. The skirt was knee-length and gently pleated. It was a good cut for me, classic yet easy to move in, and it called attention to my legs. I have nice legs, probably because of all the running away I do. All my scars were visible, but I’m a knight. Scars are part of the job.

Depending on how I wanted to look at it, I either looked fantastic or like a little kid playing dress-up with Mommy’s clothes. I was definitely voting the second. I’ve been an adult for a long time, but this . . . this wasn’t me.

“Hey, Toby. You decent?” May didn’t wait for me to answer before opening the bedroom door. She froze, eyebrows going up. Then she whistled low, saying, “
Nice
,” and calling over her shoulder, “Hey, Connor, you won the lottery!”

“Stop that!” I hissed.

“No,” said May, laughing. She tossed me a mesh bag. I caught it one-handed. “Put these on. And for the love of Oberon, lose the scowl. You look like you just bit into a lemon.”

She slammed the door behind her as she left the room, still laughing. I glared at the place where she’d been standing for a moment before dumping the bag’s contents out on the bed. It proved to hold a pair of low-slung black silk heels with ankle straps, my old footwear nemesis. I sighed as I picked them up. At least I wouldn’t lose them if I had to make a run for it. There was also a black spider silk choker with an oval moonstone pendant the size of my thumbnail, and matching earrings—no surprise there.

I put everything on and turned to give myself another long look in the mirror, trying to swallow past the lump in my throat. Taken all together, the outfit worked some strange illusion that had nothing to do with magic, playing down my mortal features, playing up my resemblance to my mother, and making me look like what the Queen’s Court wanted me to be. I didn’t look like the girl who worked for Devin, earned her knighthood almost by accident, and once tried to ditch Faerie. I looked noble. I looked like I belonged.

I looked like the Countess of Goldengreen.

I took a deep breath to steady myself. I could do this. I could go out there and face the Queen’s Court and play the part the Luidaeg and Goldengreen needed me to play. I owed it to the people who’d somehow become my subjects.

“Toby? May said to see if you were—” Connor stepped into the room, freezing in mid-step when he saw me. I guess I presented a startling picture, especially considering my customary cotton-and-denim chic.

“Yeah?” I asked, forcing a twist of a smile.

“You look . . .”

I had to forcibly restrain the urge to rake my hands through my hair. “I know. Sucks, don’t it?”

“You look amazing.” He gave me a besotted smile. “I mean it.” He’d changed while he was out, replacing his white cotton shirt and denim jeans with a tailored blue vest, white silk shirt, and dark blue trousers a few shades lighter than his Victorian-style walking jacket. His hair was damp again, the artless tangle of his gray-and-brown curls somehow making the picture perfect. His smile widened when he saw me studying him. “You approve?”

“I do.” I smoothed my skirt with the heels of my hands, ducking my head to hide the blush, and shouted, “May? How am I supposed to go armed in this getup?”