Page 136 of Nikolay

That was specific enough to reassure me against my will.

She let go of my wrist. I lowered my hand, then almost lifted it again just because being told not to had made me think about the thing more. I forced myself to stop. The gown felt stranger the longer I wore it—not uncomfortable, exactly, but significant. White with gold could mean too many things. Innocence. Ceremony. Claim. It made me feel less like a guest and more like somebody who had accidentally wandered into the wrong page of history and been costumed before she could object.

Or maybe not accidentally.

That thought came from nowhere and sat with me unpleasantly.

I looked at my reflection more closely, and my mouth softened despite myself.

I looked beautiful.

There was no use lying to myself about it. Not pretty. Not “cleaned up alright.” Beautiful in a way that made my own face look briefly unfamiliar. And because my mind was a cruel and repetitive little machine where certain men were concerned, I wondered what Nikolay would have said if he could see me.

Probably nothing useful.

I could almost hear that measured voice of his, low and maddeningly restrained, saying some old-world thing that meant more than it appeared to if one had the patience to excavate him properly. Then I remembered the actual text he had sent me and felt my chest tighten all over again.

I hope you have a good time.

That was all.

There are disappointments so small they ought not to matter. They fit in the palm, in a sentence, in a space no larger than the blue-white glow of a phone screen. Yet some of them open inward. Some of them slip clean between the ribs and settle there like an insult that your body keeps discovering afresh every time it breathes.

I drew in one careful breath now and lifted my chin at my own reflection.

Fine.

If he didn’t care, I was not about to spend the evening wearing heartbreak under antique lace.

The women gathered their brushes, pins, and little black cases. One of them told me not to lean back too hard against anything upholstered. Another warned me to lift my skirt slightly on the stairs. Then they filed out, leaving behind the scents of powder, heated irons, and expensive spray, and all at once the room went quiet enough that I heard the distant muffled life of the house beyond the closed door.

I looked at myself one last time, touched nothing, and went to the door.

The walk from the guest room to the back veranda felt longer than it probably was. Partly because of the dress. Partly because every step made the night more real. The corridor lamps cast a mellow glow over dark wood and old frames. My skirt whispered along the runner. I passed one mirror inset between two windows and caught another glimpse of white and gold moving through the house like a rumor.

At the double doors, I hesitated.

Then I pushed through.

Cool evening air met me first—softened by the season’s gentler mercy, edged with leaf mold and wood smoke and the green-dark smell of old trees. Beyond it came light. Music. Human warmth. The whole back of Ironwood seemed to have opened itself toward the grounds.

Sloan turned at once from where she stood waiting and actually grabbed both my hands when she saw me.

“Oh my God,” she said with an earnestness so complete it rescued the moment from vanity. “Maddie.”

I laughed because her face demanded it. “That bad?”

“That breathtaking.”

The word landed more tenderly than I expected.

Sloan stood in lavender and cream, and if my dress belonged to some old court, hers belonged to the same one with equal authority. The gown swept from her shoulders in pale layers that deepened into richer color at the skirt; the fabric moving when she moved like poured dusk. Her hair had been pinned up as elaborately as mine, though the effect on her was less startled fairy tale and more woman entirely accustomed to looking expensive in candlelight. She gave my hands a delighted squeeze and turned me slightly as if admiring the full work of the thing.

“I knew it,” she said. “I knew that dress was yours.”

“I feel like I should apologize to every normal outfit I’ve ever worn.”

She laughed. “Good. Then the dress is doing its job.”