“Have you heard?” she practically gushes at me. She runs at me and steals my hands into hers. “Have you heard! Mikhael and I are engaged. It’s official! Last night, he proposed—Well, his father approached our father and, well,” she cuts off for a mere moment before her face breaks out into a brilliant grin, beautiful enough to make pirates banish the seas, and she squeals so loudly that my ears sting, “I’m engaged!”

  Olivia jumps up and down on the spot, perhaps the most improper gesture I’ve ever seen from her, except one time when we were children playing on the shore and she threw a pebble at a boy’s head.

  “Oh, Keela! Can you imagine?” She’s screeching her words now. “I’ll live in the West Side and want for nothing ever again and I’ll have four servants just to myself, and I’ll never have to share anything with anyone!”

  I stare at her blankly.

  I hear what she’s saying. The words seep into my ears. And yet, I just can’t seem to really process it.

  Engaged.

  Olivia is engaged.

  To Mikhael.

  My face shutters. Something inside of me crumbles.

  My chest feels hollow and I can’t draw in a breath deep enough to fill the emptiness within me.

  The urge to strike that grin off her face tickles my hand.

  Instead, I peel my hands out of hers and take a slow step back from her. Her grin fades just a little.

  “Oh, Keela,” she starts, her voice dropping to that false pity thing she does. “You didn't truly think—You know what, never mind.” She lifts her chin and looks down her nose at me. “I won’t let you spoil my happiness.”

  I watch her rush past me in a flurry of her pale blue dressing gown and pearly shawl. She hurries up the stairs, squealing loudly for Nikah to tend to her hair immediately.

  For a while, I simply stand in the lobby, looking at the staircase.

  Then, it slots into place.

  Mikhael must have made the dress appointment for me. It is an apology, but not for what happened at the Merchant Market. It’s a weak sorry for marrying my sister, not telling me about it before it happened, and destroying any hope I ever had of escaping this life.

  Finally, I break myself out of my stupor and climb the stairs to my room. I lie in bed, the blankets pulled over my head, and wait for the hurt to hit me through the numbness. But the hurt doesn't come.

  I feel hollow, detached from my body, but my heart doesn't seem to want to break.

  A part of me, a dark vindictive part, wants to attend the dress appointment, if only to do some damage to Mikhael’s funds before Olivia offs and marries him.

  The only thing giving me pause is Father.

  If he finds out—and I can be certain he will—that I’ve gone off to the Emporium Quarter and come back with garments I cannot afford, he’ll have my head. And then, it will be worse should he learn who paid for the luxuries. I’ll be in more than hot water—I’ll be tossed out into a whirlpool in the middle of the Black Sea, where the monsters lurk.

  It’s not like I can just hide brand new, costly dresses from Father, either.

  No, I think it best that I ignore the appointment altogether. The consequences won’t be worth the benefits of two dresses and some gloves.

  Still, that leaves me the small issue of finding another way to hurt them. Olivia and Mikhael, that is. Even if I can only get back at them slightly, it’ll have to be enough. I won’t let this lie. It’s a betrayal, from the pair of them.

  Maybe I’ll feign sickness at their wedding and faint in the middle of the ceremony. I know how Olivia hates that. And Mikhael is the kind of man who will come to my aide, and that’ll really grate on my wicked sister.

  I’m yanked out of my vengeful scheming when the bedroom door rattles. A rapid knock strikes it.

  I sit up in the bed, wrestling the blankets off my head, and glower at the door.

  “Go away!”

  The knock comes again, only this time, the door creaks open.

  “Miss Keela?” Nikah’s uncertain voice comes through the crack. “There is a carriage here for you.”

  My brows furrow. “What for?”

  She pokes her head inside. “To take you to the Emporium Quarter. For your dress appointment, remember?”

  “Oh, I’m not going.” I flop back down on the bed.

  “The messenger is here to escort you,” she goes on, uncertainty clinging to the shaky edges of her voice. “He is quite insistent.”

  I peer at her from my fortress of blankets and throws and pillows. “Tell him to leave.”

  “I ...” she hesitates. “He is instructed to take you to the appointment, miss. He has told me that ... Well, that he should carry you there if need be.”

  I make a sour face at her. “I’m not dressed.”

  It’s a weak excuse, but the first that came to mind. Truthfully, I’m dressed well enough to leave the house, but not to attend the West Side.

  Nikah slips into the room and heads for my wardrobe. “We’ll fix you with a coat, and you will be appropriate.”

  With a huff, I throw the blankets off my legs and slide out of bed. I make a show of wrestling on the coat with her help. I throw on some gloves and Nikah ties my hair back with a faded white ribbon.

  As she said, there is a messenger waiting for me in the lobby. The same one that delivered the letter, I’m sure, since he matches Nikah’s description. Handsome—for an older gentleman—and dressed pristinely to showcase the attire only found in the Emporium Quarter. His hands are wrapped in ivory-pale gloves, and he has them folded at his front.

  He nods when I descend the stairs. “Miss Keela,” he greets, his voice all polite and somewhat distant. “Allow me to escort you to Bartel’s Boutique. I have a private carriage that will take you there.”

  “What’s this all about?” The sound of Father’s voice strikes through me like a hatchet.

  I turn to see him standing by his study door, his beefy arms crossed over his chest.

  “What have you done now, Keela?” he barks at me. “You better not have arranged this appointment, girl, or it’ll be a hiding if you ever saw one.”

  I cringe.

  “If you please, sir,” the messenger speaks for me and takes a step forward. “This appointment has been arranged—and paid for—by an anonymous third-party, who does not wish to disclose their identity. Miss Keela will not be expected or allowed to cover a coin of the cost. Now,” he adds and turns to me, extending his arm, “if you will allow me, miss.”

  I throw a look back at my father. He looks at me darkly, and I suspect a hiding with the leather strap (that I am very familiar with) will be coming to me anyway.

  “Well,” Father says and unfolds his arms. He studies me, hard. “I suppose if I’m not paying, you may as well go.”

  Relief erupts inside of me like startbursts in the night sky.

  Father looks at the messenger. “This third-party,” he starts. “Wouldn’t by any chance be an admirer, would it?” He turns his beady eyes on me. “Might be a nice surprise to push you into someone’s arms if it means I’m rid of you.”

  The messenger says, “I’m not at liberty to disclose any information about the third-party.”

  I suck in a deep breath, then take the gentleman’s offered arm. He leads me down the porch to the carriage waiting on the street.

  One look at the carriage, I know he comes from where he says. ‘EMPORIUM TRANSPORT’ is written in shiny emerald letters on the door.

  He opens the door for me and helps me inside. Once I’m parked on the cushioned seat, the door closes on me and the cool air in the carriage quickly overwhelms the thick, humid air outside.

  We are quick to get moving. The ride isn’t as rocky as it is to the Lost Square, but I still sway on the seat or jut whenever we ride over something bumpy. I fish out my necklace from my cleavage, then take a swig of my remedy. It’s been too long since my last dose, and the appointment has my nerves all frazzled. On second thought, I down the whole phial’s contents, then tuck it away, empty.

  Before long, the carriage rolls to a slow stop. I peel back the thick curtain and peer outside.

  The shopfront faces me.

  Not unlike the white-stone street, the facade of the shop gleams a soft, clean pearly-white, and there’s a squared panelled window where mannequins stand, showcasing the latest trends. Ribbons through corsets, hair-clasps pinned to wigs, and lacy gloves that come up to the wrists then frill out.

  The door suddenly opens and I’m struck with a hit of hot, salty air. Even in the West Side, you can’t escape the thick heat.

  The messenger extends his arm.

  “Welcome to Bartel’s Boutique, Miss Keela.”

  6.

  The moment I step foot through the door, the boutique steals away my breath.

  It’s not the size that’s overwhelming, it’s everything else—the scent of lavender in the air that’s so strong that it’s as though two sticks of it have been shoved up my nose; the thick velvet curtains that gleam like they are all newly made, and they hide hidden dress rooms and alcoves down a narrow, white hallway; the plush loveseats overwhelmed with fat cushions wearing silky tassels; mannequins dolled-up in the latest layered gowns whose silks and satins seem to glide on the spot; and the glaring truth that there is no counter to pay at in the lobby. I see no signs of a till, money pot, invoice parchment, or even an ink-pot and quill. It’s as though everything in Bartel’s Boutique is personable; nothing resembles the bartering that goes on in the East Side, or the greedy merchants all too eager to stash away payment in locked pots and tills.

  I suddenly feel more out of place than I ever have in my life.

  The mannequins loom around me, reminding me of the dull, somewhat faded and stained cream of my dress. I don’t wear a proper dress for these parts of the Capital, no tulle under my skirt to puff it out, no corset or ribbons to cinch my waist, and definitely no intricate braids or curls like those wigs perched all around me.

  With my over-worn wrap-dress and loosely bound hair and torn gloves, I belong in the East Side, lurking through the lanes of the Shadow Quarter and the Lost Square. I don’t belong here amongst the finest silks and satins and velvets and lace that the Capital has to offer.

  Still, a hostess is quick to greet me. Maybe she’s a shopkeeper, but I think of her more as a hostess to this wonderful place that makes me feel like I’ve been stuffed inside a coloured phial of tonic. Sleek black hair falls down her back like a midnight waterfall, but loose strands are tied delicately down the middle to hold the style in place, and it’s like no braid I’ve ever seen. Envy strikes my gut with a pang, but it’s quickly banished as she graces me with a dazzling grin that has me smiling sheepishly back at her.

  “Welcome, Miss Keela!” Her voice trills like wind chimes in a gentle sea-breeze. “Please, follow me.”

  She whirls around in a sleek blur of dark hair that moves like a whip, then leads the way down a narrow, velvet-draped corridor with floral-embellished doors and curtained alcoves lining the walls. She takes me far up the end to the very last door—a double set with gold, engraved doorknobs.

  She twists the knobs and pushes open the doors.

  A gasp chokes in my throat. I bite it back to hide my surprise.

  Still, shock slackens my face and brings a rare flush to my cheeks. I throw a look at the shopkeeper to make certain she has led me to the right room. She simply throws me a sweet, polite smile, then ushers me inside.

  The room is large, even for a boutique like this place, and wears a floor-to-ceiling mirror on the wall opposite. There is a polished tray stacked with accessories to my right, and beside it stands racks of new materials and fabrics.

  But it’s not the lush grandeur of the dressing room that has me stunned and gaping like a caught fish.

  It’s him.

  Draped over the loveseat to my left, arms spread over the back of the chaise like he owns the place, is Silver.

  His face is impassive marble, but his pearlescent eyes gleam bright in the dim light of the room, and when the doors shut behind me, his gaze slides to me.

  Even through the shock fogging me, he’s striking. The rosy tint to his pinched mouth fleetingly brings strawberries to mind, and his fine nose catches a natural highlight from the chandelier above. Combed back, his thick head of pale-blonde hair glitters like moonlight.

  He looks the part for this boutique, if not for his proud and handsome face, then for his attire. An ivory cravat is tucked into the neckline of a crimson tail-coat, whose collar is threaded with golden embellishments, all the way down the gold buttons to the split that reveals his cream breeches. Yet, his polished grey boots wear slight scuffs at the edges, as though he walked far and long before coming here.

  If it weren’t for the sudden glint that passed over Silver’s eyes when he first looked at me, he could pass as a forever-sitting statue, eternally bored of its surroundings.

  I’m frozen on the spot, stuck in place as though quicksand has my slippers in its grip. My hands find each other at my middle, and instantly I begin to twist my fingers as icy nerves bite at me.

  His gaze cuts away from mine and he, ever-so-slowly, considers me, head-to-toe. He takes in the scuffed toes of the slippers that poke out from the hem of my beige dress, the slight frayed edges of my sleeves, and up to my face that wears no hint of make-up, and my coarse hair wrestled back with a ribbon.

  Before either of us breaks the suffering silence that suffocates me, one of the doors suddenly opens.

  I step back instinctively, as if I don’t want to be caught in a room with an aniel, lest people think wrongly. Rumours to the Capital are like bait to sharks. And I’m feeling ever-so like bait.

  The hostess with the inky black hair returns. She pushes in a trolley stacked to the brim with teacups and biscuits and purple sweet-jam sandwiches.

  I watch her with wide eyes—a gaze that betrays my anxiety—as she leaves the trolley then vanishes back out into the boutique. I notice she’s careful to shut the door behind her too, leaving me trapped with Silver.

  A rustle from the side jolts panic through me.

  I stagger back and watch as Silver elegantly pushes up from the chaise and wanders over to the trolley. He picks up the teapot and pours one cup full of some blue tea that I’ve never seen before, but it carries a faint scent of lavender and liquorice—two things that I know from experience are great for energy.

  “Sit.” Silver’s voice is small, yet commanding. Not to be argued with. He keeps his back to me as he sets down the teapot, then takes a small plate and starts to place small butterscotch biscuits onto it, and two triangles of purple-jam sandwiches.

  I back up to the chaise, then—never taking my wary eyes off of him—slowly sink to sit.

  I can’t bring myself to speak.

  I should ask him what he’s doing here, tell him to leave, accuse him of making this appointment. But then, a thought strikes me silent.

  Silver couldn’t have made this appointment for me.

  First, why on earth would an aniel go to all this trouble—and pay out of his own pocket—for a mere mortal’s wardrobe? I mean, really.

  Not to mention, it was only last night at the ball that I spoke with him about my limited gowns and dresses, and when I returned home the appointment letter was already there, waiting for me. My servant confirmed that the letter was delivered when I was at the ball, so it couldn’t possibly have been Silver who arranged this.

  Still, I do and say nothing. All I can manage is to try and tame the hard punches of my heart against my chest, and keep my hands clenched on the skirt of my dress.

  Silver sets the dish and the teacup on a round polished tray, then brings it to me. I watch him closely as he sets the tray down on the loveseat at my side, but he doesn't so much as throw a measly glance my way.

  The silence is starting to thicken to the point I can barely draw in a satisfying breath. All my nerves are tingling, pushing me to the edge of the seat, begging me to sprint out of the boutique as fast as my weak body can carry me.

  The striking colour of his tail-coat captures my attention. To block the panic from rising up within me, I focus on it, study the golden threads that trace the hem at the back of the coat.

  Silver lazily picks through the draped fabrics on the rack, his gloveless, long fingers moving nimbly over silks and lace and chiffon.

  Finally, I snap under the pressure of the quiet. I can’t sit here suffocating a minute longer.

  My fingers dig hard into the skirt of my dress as I whisper, “Why are you here?”

  He doesn't look back at me as he coolly answers, “Given what you wear, I can hardly trust that you will choose well.”

  A frown pinches between my eyebrows. “Did you make this appointment?” Uncertainty clings to my weak, hushed voice. I can barely scrape up enough courage to speak to him, let alone speak strongly.

  He lets out a choked sound, somewhere between a curt chuckle and a scoff. It’s hard to tell without seeing his face.

  Silver lazily clutches the edge of a violet-blue silk and gives it a tug. It ribbons off the rack in a flurry of shades, glittering under the chandelier.

  I tense as he turns on me, running the material over his naked hands. He looks menacing.

  He advances on me, then lifts up the edge of the fabric to my cheek. His eyes cut between the flush on my skin to the material, back and forth.

  “Are you partial to periwinkle?” he asks, his voice distant as though he’s wondering aloud.

  I blink at him before I slowly turn my gaze on the silk sheet. “Uh, I ... It’s nice,” I manage. I look up at him, at the studious look that pinches his face as he considers the material. “Did you make the appointment?” I ask again.

  His eyes flash with annoyance as he turns his gaze on me. “I am here, aren’t I?”

  He whips the fabric away from me and marches over to an empty trolley. He tosses the sheet onto it, and it drapes like a fresh duvet over a plush bed. It is a nice colour and material, I must admit, but now that he’s practically confessed to arranging this appointment for me, I’m even more eager to rush out of the boutique.