Her good black pants, a sweater, boots, she decided as she cleaned up the hair and makeup debris. She’d put on some earrings, maybe a nice scarf.
And that would have to be good enough.
Then she stepped out and saw the dress on the bed.
It was deep blue, like it had been dipped into the sea under moonlight. Simple, she thought, with its long sleeves and scooped neck. And of velvet, soft to the touch.
She picked up the note beside it, and felt stupid, and more than a little guilty over her self-pity.
Breen Siobhan, I thought you might enjoy wearing this tonight. If it doesn’t suit, no worries. Nan.
“Of course it suits,” she murmured.
Simple, no fuss, soft. How could it not suit?
When she put it on, it fit as though made for her, which she realized it surely had been. It fell in an easy drape to just above her ankles, and made her feel loved.
She chose the earrings Sul had given her, and with her dragon’s heart stone and her father’s wedding ring on the chain around her neck thought she hit the mark with jewelry.
As she considered her choices of footwear—which didn’t amount to much given her hasty packing—Marco knocked on the door.
“Come on in.”
“Let’s get down to business,” he began, then stopped and stared at her. Without a word, he circled his finger in the air so she’d do a turn.
“Where’d you get that dress, girl? It’s a killer.”
“Nan sent it. It’s a killer?”
“The body in it’s the killer, and that dress knows how to show it off.”
“Oh.” Immediately distressed, Breen turned back to the mirror.
“In a classy way, Breen. Jeez. The opposite of a trip to Slut Town— not that there’s anything wrong with that. You want the cool boots— the black ones with the stubby heels and the fake laces up the front.”
“I do?”
“Yeah, you do.” He got them out himself. “Don’t want the tall ones or the walking boots with that.”
“I’ll bow to your far superior fashion sense. Speaking of, you look great.”
“I’m rocking it,” he agreed, and posed in her mirror.
He wore snug black jeans, black high-top Chucks, a turtleneck sweater the color of aged bronze with his leather vest over it. He sported a single silver hoop in his left ear, and the protection bracelet she’d made him.
“Put those boots on so we can get a load of our smoking selves.”
Obediently, she sat down, put them on, tugged up the zippers on the sides. When she stood beside him, she stuck a hand on her hip and struck a runway pose to make him laugh.
“There we are, and we are lit! It’s gonna be hard for us not to get lucky tonight.”
“I’m not looking to get lucky tonight.”
He heaved a sigh. “Girl, there you go making me sad right before a party. Come on. I’m going to get my guitar.”
He detoured to his room, arranged the guitar’s colorful strap cross-body to carry it on his back. As if he knew a party was in his future, Bollocks wagged his way down the steps.
“We just have to figure the best way to carry the cake over there.”
“Marco, it’s beautiful!” He’d drizzled thin, glossy glaze over the golden-brown dome. It sat on a cooling rack scenting the kitchen. “That’s it, decision made. You’re going to open your own place.”
“Right now, it’s getting it there in one piece.” Carefully, he transferred it from the rack to a plate. “I guess we put a cloth over it.”
“I can do better.” She pointed at him. “I’ve got this.” She dashed into the laundry room, came back with a cardboard box.
“Good idea. It won’t be pretty, but it’ll be safer.”
“I’ve got this,” she repeated. She ran her hands over the box, sides, top, bottom, over and over as she visualized what she wanted.
Slowly, the brown turned red, faint at first, then deeper, brighter. For a flourish, she scattered silver stars over it.
“Holy crap! How’d you do that? How’d you do that just touching it?”
“It’s more. It’s intent and visualization and will. It’s just a glamour, so it won’t last more than a few hours. Maybe less, since I’ve never done it on an object before. But long enough to get your cake there in style.”
“You’re the eighth, ninth, and tenth wonder of the world.” He set the plated cake inside, cut some kitchen cord to secure the lid.
“I don’t suppose you could do a fancy ribbon.”
“Challenge accepted. Silver, I guess, to match the stars.”
Now she ran the cord between her fingers until it widened, flattened, began to shine silver. “I’ve never been really good at tying bows, but maybe this way …”
She laughed, ridiculously pleased, when she turned the tiny corded bow into an elaborate one.
Marco picked up the box. “My BFF’s an honest-to-God witch. We gonna ride your broomstick to the party?”
“Clichéd much? Let’s go, Bollocks. I’m actually in the mood for a party.”
She brought light to guide them through the woods, with owls calling and Bollocks racing ahead.
“When I’m ready to go, you don’t have to. They can put you up at the farm—or in my room at Nan’s—if you want. Or someone will bring you back over.”
“We’ll see how it goes. No point thinking about leaving before you even get there.”
“Give me the cake,” she said when they reached the tree. “Go ahead, Bollocks, we’re right behind you.”
When they passed through, Marco put a hand on her shoulder to balance himself, then left it there as he looked across the road.
Light gleamed in every window of the sprawling farmhouse, and campfires dotted the field where the tents stood. Music poured through the air—from the house, from the field.
She could see movement behind the windows. People danced there, and on the grass. Others sat on the stone walls or on bales of hay with plates of food or cups or tankards.
“Now, that looks like a party. Sounds like a party.” Marco tugged her down the steps. “Let’s go get us some of that.”
It didn’t matter how many people (so many!) would be there, she told herself. Nan would be there, and Morena, and others she knew. All she had to do was find a safe spot, drink some wine with a friend, listen to the music.
Those seated on the wall shouted greetings as they walked to the door. Marco started to knock.
“They won’t hear it anyway,” he decided, and opened the door.
Warmth rushed out. The fire crackled, Harken sawed something lively on a fiddle while others played an accordion, a mandolin, a bodhrán drum. Kids sat on laps, babies bounced on them. People danced as if their feet could fly.
Through the melee, Finola hurried up to them. “There’s my handsome Marco. I’ll have a dance with you before the night’s over.”
“Only one?”
She laughed, patted his cheek. “And how pretty you are, Breen. Ah, Marg will be so pleased the dress suited you.”
“It’s wonderful. Is she here?”
“She is indeed, in the back now helping Tarryn with the food. Enough for two armies we have, and it’s good we do, as we’ve at least that.”
“I’ll take the cake back and give them a hand.” Having tasks generally put her at ease at a party. “Dance with Finola.”
As she walked away, Breen heard Finola ask, “And are you going to play for us, my darling boy?”
Try to stop him, Breen thought.
On her way to the back, Breen spotted a few familiar faces, and that helped, too.
In the kitchen she found Tarryn and Marg setting out yet more food, there and in the dining room, on tables already groaning under pots and plates and bowls and dishes.
Aisling sat, one hand on her growing belly.