room full of my mother’s things, I do not know if I would let anyone inside. I
don’t even know if I would brave it myself.
He opens one of the closets. Much of the clothing is moth-eaten, but I can
see what they once were. A skirt with a beaded pattern of pomegranates, another
that pulls up, like a curtain, to show a stage with jeweled mechanical puppets
underneath. There is even one stitched with the silhouette of dancing fauns as
tall as the skirt itself. I’ve admired Oriana’s dresses for their elegance and
opulence, but these awaken in me a hunger for a dress that’s riotous. They make
me wish I’d seen Locke’s mother in one of her gowns. They make me think she
must have liked to laugh.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a dress like any of these,” I tell him. “You
really want me to wear one?”
He brushes a hand over a sleeve. “I guess they’re a bit rotted.”
“No,” I say. “I like them.”
The one with the fauns is the least damaged. I dust it off and tug it on
behind an old screen. I struggle, because it’s the sort of dress that’s difficult to
put on without Tatterfell’s help. I have no idea how to arrange my hair any
differently, so I leave it as is—braided in a crown around my head. When I wipe
off a silver mirror with my hand and see myself dressed in a dead faerie’s
clothes, a shudder goes through me.
Suddenly, I do not know why I am here in this place. I am not sure of
Locke’s intentions. When he tries to drape me in his mother’s jewels, I refuse
them.
...