Page 56 of Homegrown Magic

Yael hopes that’s true. “And when do I get to see your gown?”

“I took it out while you were in the washroom, but can you help me put it on? This corset is relentless, and I can hardly bend to pick the dress up. I’m scared to try by myself.”

“Of course.”

Yael scrubs the lip paint from their hand in the washbasin, flexing their fingers as they trail behind Margot to remind themself that they’re not allowed to tear the fabric either. Not until afterward. With great care, they pick up the ballgown laid out on the bed—a sleek bouquet of feathers and gems and green silk.

Turning away from them, Margot raises her hands above her head. Yael pauses briefly to press a kiss to her spine above her corset—lightly, so the paint doesn’t stain—and she shivers. They stand on their toes and stretch to guide her hands into the sleeves, letting the dress slip slowly down over her body. The clip holding her hair out of the way comes loose, and Yael brushes the waving purple strands over her shoulder to pull the laces tight at her back. She hands them a collar of stiff black feathers, and Yael clasps it at the nape of her neck.

When Margot spins around again, she’s transformed into a kind of magical, exotic bird from the raindrop-jeweled forests of southern Harrow. Below the unattached collar, the black sweetheart bodice that dips low between her breasts is covered by black feathers, tiny green gems twinkling among the plumage. Sheer, voluminous sleeves leave her shoulders bare, billowing winglike down her arms. Layer upon layer of green and black silk flows down from her tightly cinched waist, pooling around her delicate heeled boots. She’s dangerously stunning.

“That settles it,” they declare, sliding their hands to her waist to draw her in. “I am, in fact, wildly unworthy. We’ll have to find you another date on the way to the estate. Maybe the coachman—”

“All right, all right.” Margot pushes them gently away. She’s laughing, but when Yael clasps their hands around her wrists to hold her close for just a moment longer, her hands are trembling.

“Margot, are you—”

“It’s nothing,” she insists, slipping free. “I’m just nervous. It’s a lot of people all at once, and your parents…” Margot shakes her head. “Let’s just get the evening over with so we can be alone together?”

“Of course, Daisy.” Yael would love nothing more.

“I still have to pin my hair up. Can you bring me my mask from the side table? I need to put it on first.”

Yael bows deeply, and Margot’s gaze settles on their lips for a long moment before she turns and swishes into the washroom to use the mirror.

It could be just like this, a treacherous voice inside of them whispers suddenly, and this time, Yael can’t tell if it’s their patron’s or their own. Margot dressed in gowns befitting her beauty, and you riding beside her in fine carriages, fulfilling a few family duties before collapsing onto silk sheets together every night. Life could always be this easy, this comfortable. All you really have to do is pretend, and you’ve spent the better part of twenty-three years doing just that. It’s not a high price to pay, is it?

No. No, no, no. All of this is temporary, they remind themself.

It’s true that the two of them have passed a generally pleasant three days in the city. Margot seemed quiet and on edge when she returned from her dress fitting—time spent with Menorath Clauneck could do that to a person—but since then, Yael’s aimed to make it up to her by properly showing her around Ashaway, from which she’s been estranged far longer than they have. She had no desire to revisit the street of boutiques and fine dress shops and haberdasheries, but had no objection to the many pastry and tea shops sprinkled across the heart of the capital. They sampled spiced lavender and honey scones, cheese and black pepper turnovers, cinnamon custard that somehow smelled of sunset, and a pot of rich red tea that tasted just like piecrust. They walked the winding footpaths of Auximia, where Yael pointed out their old dormitory tower but steered well clear of the hall of economics named for their family. They rented horses on Clauneck credit and rode along the banks of the Willowthorn. Or at least the slice of the river that’s been built up for promenading; farther east from the Golden Court are the alga-slicked ferry docks that transport residents of the Rookery to and from their day’s work, but here, there are clean cobbled paths and a flower hedge to keep loose children from tipping into its fast-flowing waters, with pixies nesting in the foliage.

When it was only the two of them, with no old school acquaintances or Clauneck hangers-on to stop them in the streets or taverns or tea shops, it didn’t feel so different from their afternoons in Bloomfield. At least they were together, and anyplace with Margot was better than anyplace without.

Still, Yael doesn’t belong here anymore. They don’t want to belong here. They don’t…

“Yael? My mask please? We shouldn’t be late!” Margot calls.

Yael hurries across the room and snatches the mask from her nightstand without truly seeing it.

Their carriage ride from the Glowing Coin is almost a straight path down the Queens’ Road, out the courts, through the closely built mansions of the rich-but-not-Clauneck-rich, and into the greenery of the sprawling estates at the southern tip of Ashaway. Along the winding private road to Yael’s former estate, palm-sized purple fires burn in iron lanterns strung from the branches of the exquisitely manicured trees lining the path.

Beside them on the carriage bench, Margot fidgets. She hasn’t sat still since they left the inn, and even her mask—glittering green and black, with a regal crown of feathers and a miniature flock of jeweled birds rising from it—can’t disguise her pale skin or the quickness of her breathing.

Yael doesn’t blame her. The closer they’ve drawn to the ball, the more frantic the butterflies in their own stomach. When they clear the trees and the manor house rises up in front of them—six stories of dark-gray stone silhouetted against the summer-bright evening sky—Yael forgets how to breathe entirely.

Why are they so terrified? True, they hardly ever felt a moment’s peace with themself in this cold, lonely castle of a home, but that’s why they chose to leave it behind. They’re grown now, and they have Bloomfield, and they have Margot, and they shouldn’t feel like…

Like a child again.

Like they’re thirteen years old, and all they want to do is sneak away and hide in an attic tower with one of their only true friends, eating strawberry jam and pretending they never have to come back down.

They feel fingers close around theirs and look down to find Margot’s gloved hand clasping their own. “Ready for this?” she asks shakily.

Yael squeezes back, and slowly they remember how to breathe again. “Let’s go in, and be done with it, and go home.”

A butler whom Yael doesn’t recognize greets them at the doors. What happened to Flatwater, the stoic figure who, if never a warm presence from their childhood, was at least familiar? This man doesn’t seem to know Yael at all until they announce themself and Margot. Then the butler simply nods, signaling a footman to lead Yael and Margot up to the grand ballroom. As though Yael needs an escort.

When they reach the great arched entrance to the ballroom, Yael sees that the purple heartwood doors have been removed from their hinges and an elaborate, wrought-iron gate has been installed in their place. Black iron vines curl and wind among the barbed pickets through which a room half filled with guests is visible. As another pair of footmen swing the gates open to let Yael and Margot inside, the theme of this year’s masquerade becomes clear.