I’m going to the prom.
With a boy I’ve never met.
I suppose he can’t be worse than any of the boys Ihavemet. He doesn’t appear to be a serial killer — at least, not from my quick perusal of his profile.
What’s the worst that could happen?
The thing is, I don’t have any real reason not to attend the stupid dance-slash-dinner-cruise our student council’s planned. Lame as it may be to admit… in my head, prom has always seemed like the true culmination of high school. A milestone more important than walking across a graduation stage to accept a diploma or tossing a cap into the air.
I guess that’s why I made the dress.
Walking slowly toward my closet, butterflies stir to life in the pit of my stomach. I push aside the hangers holding my most recent design projects and reach all the way into the back, until my fingers brush against soft cloth. Pulling the garment out, I can’t help admiring the way it shimmers in the low light.
Honestly, it was never my intention to make my own prom dress. But several months ago, while wandering the aisles of my favorite craft store, I stumbled across a bolt of fabric that stole my heart in an instant. The dark blue-gray silk had a natural fluidity that reminded me of the ocean at wintertime, when the sky is overcast and the surface has gone wild with ripples. I had no plan to go on, no pattern to work from… but I tossed every yard of it in my cart anyway, unable to leave it behind.
As soon as I got home, I set to work like a woman possessed — first sketching out a design, then draping the fabric over my mannequin. Pinning it into precise, elegant lines. Cutting and trimming and stitching.
For two days straight, I hunched over my machine like a poor seamstress sewing for her supper, all my attention fixated on the dress in my tired hands. My life dwindled to the most basic of elements.
Thread.
Needle.
Hem.
Seam.
I worked until my fingers were swollen; until my eyes were bleary with exhaustion. And when it was finished… when the dress appeared complete even to my hyper-vigilant eyes… I finally put it on.
Standing before the mirror, twirling around like a princess in a fairy tale, I could see it so clearly.
My perfect prom night.
In the perfect dress.
With the perfect date.
I dreamed of how I’d walk down the grand staircase of Cormorant House — a corsage on my wrist, a limo waiting in the driveway. I dreamed of the boy waiting at the bottom of those stairs — a modern Prince Charming in a tailored tuxedo, his bright caramel eyes fixed on me with wonderment.
Now, in the harsh light of reality, that feels more like a fantasy.
My fingertips trail across the whisper-thin silk of the dress I made for a boy who was never mine. And my heart aches for a dreams turned to dust.
Life is not a fairy tale.
I am not a princess.
I am nothing at all.
Chapter Eighteen
ARCHER
The Dark Lordand his Mistress of Doom have returned — a week ahead of schedule, no less — and brought with them a perpetual cloud of tension that hangs heavily over Cormorant House.
I, personally, don’t have much occasion to interact with Vincent and Blair; I can count the number of conversations I’ve ever had with them on one hand. But I grind my teeth as I watch my parents tiptoeing around the estate on eggshells, doing their best to remain invisible while they complete their tasks. They’d never admit it aloud, but we’re all thinking the same thing.
Please let this visit be a short one.