Chapter Thirty-Six #3
past her shoulders. Her arms are strong and glinting, with a line of glass gems along each forearm like the buttons on a long
glove. The amethyst and blue of her gown make her eyes gleam like sapphires. Rouge sharpens her cheekbones, swells her lips.
The woman before me is wise and sophisticated, maybe a little mysterious. Unafraid. Beautiful.
“Banshee silk skirt,” Mehuda says. “Griffin condor breast feathers. Dragonling scales. Ghouljinn glass. Nothing killed. Everything
harvested. A mantle of monsters.”
“It’s incredible,” I tell him.
“It’s you,” he says.
“I can’t believe you were able to create this gown so quickly. The details!”
He shrugs. “He who finds his calling can achieve great things.”
“This is your calling? Dressing me for a ball?”
He reaches for the train, spreads it out to his satisfaction. “Master Mehuda is no soldier,” he says. “Some fights are bloodless. Still important. Art can do what swords cannot.”
“This gown is definitely art.”
“Yes,” he agrees shamelessly. And then he repeats: “A mantle of monsters.”
I’m not sure what he’s saying with his art, but I tell him, “Thank you,” with all sincerity and gratitude.
He beams. “Here, a pocket.” He lifts the skirt near my hip, showing an opening, sewn perfectly, invisible unless you knew
where to look. A tiny dagger with a leather sheath rests inside. I didn’t even notice when I was donning the gown.
Titus peeks around the folding screen, and Mehuda beckons for him to step out. He does, and it’s my turn to feel like I’ve
been hit by a bag of bricks. He wears an ivory silk blouse with billowing sleeves and a plunging V neck that exposes his throat
and part of his chest—and the Cerastes’s coil resting there. Over that is a tight leather vest, dyed black, that has a strange
shimmer. A closer look reveals a line of tiny black feathers along each seam. When he moves, they flutter slightly, showing
off their amethyst undersides—just like the bodice of my dress.
Along one vest lapel is a smaller appliqué to match my own—a perched dragon breathing fire, though his is more reddish gold.
It brings out the color of his hair and makes his amber eyes glow like gems.
Matching leather pants grip his hips and thighs in a way I find a little too fascinating, but as my gaze drifts down to his
feet, I start cackling with laughter. He’s still in the steel-toed boots he was wearing when we first met.
Mehuda and Titus give me a confused look, so I thrust out my foot to reveal my own worn boot. “I’m so glad we’ll match,” I say. “Monster bits, dragon embroidery, dried mud.”
Mehuda claps his hands, saying, “Shoes!”
An attendant comes forward with a pair of blue silk slippers encrusted with glass. They have a slight rise and a heel strap
that attaches with a dragon-scale button. They fit perfectly. Titus is similarly shod in black boots with golden buckles.
“Much better,” I say.
“Master Mehuda,” Titus says. “I have a small favor.”
The tailor gives him a suspicious look.
“A challenge, really,” Titus says. “Not just any tailor would be up for it.”
Mehuda’s suspicion evolves into curiosity.
Titus bends down to reach into his pack, retrieves the gloves.
“These gauntlets are old and ugly,” Titus says, “but they are too valuable to be unattended. I must wear them tonight.”
Mehuda grabs them. Purses his lips as he turns them over, studies them from every angle. “It is no challenge,” he says. “But
they will hide your rings.”
“I would rather appear ringless than lose these gauntlets,” Titus says.
“Very well,” Mehuda says. Then he snaps, “Dye boy!”
A young man steps forward—the same one who fastened the back of my gown.
“Match these to the prince’s outfit,” Mehuda orders.
The dye boy reaches for them, closes his eyes. In the space of a breath, the worn, undyed leather is suddenly ink black, exactly
the shade of Titus’s vest and pants.
“That was amazing,” I say to the young man as Titus dons the gauntlets. “You have a remarkable Gift.”
He gives me a shy smile.
“Only one more thing,” Mehuda says. “Scent boy!”
Another young man steps forward, holding a stoppered vial. Mehuda gestures for him to approach me, and he does, opening the
vial and tipping some of its contents onto his fingertips. He lightly brushes his wet fingers against the skin behind my ears,
then does the same with my wrists. The air fills with the clean sweetness of freesia and bergamot.
“You are ready,” Mehuda says. “No jewelry, save for those amulets. Not needed.”
“Thank you, Master Mehuda,” Titus says. “We will display your art with honor and pride.”
Mehuda’s smile wobbles. “Please. The Great One. He needs to . . . be gone.”
“How will we find him?” I ask. “What does he look like?”
“Oh, sweet mountain girl,” Mehuda says, his eyes filling with tears. “Master Mehuda is so sorry. His sadness and regret and
self-flagellation will torture him until the moons fall from the sky.”
“I don’t understand,” I say.
“He cannot resist a beautiful girl. The Great One will find you.”
Titus looks like he’s about to explode, and he takes a step toward me as though he needs to protect me in this very dressing
room. I put up a hand to stop him and say, “Good.”