Page 91 of Fate's Wicked Oath

32

Dress-Up

Mariana

You can’t wear that,” Hattie said the next morning.

I glanced down at the plain black garments of my usual uniform. “What’s wrong with my clothes? They’re clean.” I wasn’t even wearing my armor.

The Possum’s pub was abustle, filled with familiar and unfamiliar townsfolk crisscrossing the wooden floor, their arms laden with fabric, crates, flowers, food. When a rosy-cheeked middle-aged woman nearly shoulder-checked me on her way out the door with a basket full of sweet buns, I sidestepped out of the way and slid onto a barstool. Hattie was behind the counter, muddling herbs and shoving the bruised leaves into bottles—it seemed shedidhave time to alchemize, just not for my urgent needs.

Without looking up from her task, she shook her head, knocking a coil of blonde hair loose from her bun. “You can’t wear black,” she insisted. “It’s bad luck.”

“What’s with this town and its superstitions?” I muttered.

Hattie snorted. “Questioning it is a losing battle—trust me.”

I reached for one of her half-filled bottles and gave it a sniff. The reddish-purple concoction smelled like blackberries and mint, cut through with some kind of citrusy distilled alcohol. When I lifted the bottle toward my lips for a taste, Hattie snatched it out of my hand.

“I’ll see if the seamstress can lend you something more appropriate,” she continued, her deft hands reaching for a mortar and pestle, where she began grinding more berries into a pulp with surprising ruthlessness.

I fiddled with the hem of my black shirt. “More appropriate for what?”

“The wedding.”

“I’m not going to the wedding.”

“The whole town is going,” Hattie said, as if that mattered.

“I’ll wait.”

“And do what?”

“Sharpen my knives.”

Hattie raised a brow. “For three days?”

“Three days?” I placed my palms on the countertop, my nails digging into the smooth wood. “You didn’t tell me the wedding would take three fucking days—I can’t wait that long.”

Hattie shrugged, not at all cowed by my anger. Perhaps Idris was right—I was losing my edge. My useful, effective, threatening edge.

“Hattie, I cannot—”

“Your travel companion already confirmed your attendance.” She glanced past me, out the open front door of the inn, where golden morning sunlight was illuminating a front yard filled with workers.

“My…” I trailed off, my indignance fading when I saw him.

Faren was outside, moving crates with a handful of other men. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up, revealing the cords in his forearms. His cheeks were flushed from exertion, his hairhad fallen across his forehead, and his eyes were creased as he joked and laughed with his new friends.

When I looked at Hattie again, she was biting back a smile. I lifted my lip and snarled, and she was smart enough to go back to her task, topping off the bottles with some sort of fizzy wine.

“He doesn’t speak for me,” I argued.

“In this instance, he did.” She took up her pestle again and pointed its blunt end at me like a knife, punctuating her words. “But you can’t attend in black.”

Frustrated by our conversational circles, I glanced sidelong down the counter. There was a lone, untouched pastry on a plate a few stools down, and I reached for it, sliding it closer. Whosever it was, it was mine now. I lifted the flaky breakfast roll to my lips and took a bite, relishing the punchiness of the flavors inside: spiced sausage, crispy potatoes, and some kind of gravy that was utterly divine.

“Oh, good,” came a deep, familiar, lilting voice from the doorway. “You found the breakfast I ordered for you.”