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The two of us are locked away in the royal dressmaker’s shop with a series of fairies taking our measurements and holding swatches of cloth up to our faces. The air is thick with the scent of sandalwood and burning oil. We’ve already gotten our nails (or, in my case, claws) filed and our hair trimmed.

The fairy measuring Temper sniffs.

I only barely manage to contain my smile at her words.

“I thought you liked getting primped?” I say. Lord knows Temper’s always going on about improvements I could be making to my own wardrobe.

“Yeah, I like it when I do it myself. It only takes five minutes, and most importantly, I don’t have to strip down to my lacy bits while some random fairy paws at me.” Temper yelps as said random fairy sticks her with a pin; then my friend glares pointedly at the woman.

“Perhaps if you stopped moving…” the fairy says.

“I’ve been holding still for an hour. I’m not a statue.”

Another fairy intercedes. “My lady, we are terribly sorry for the inconvenience. We’re working as fast as we can.”

The tailor working on me pats my arm. “All finished,” he whispers, letting me step off the pedestal I’ve been standing on.

“Wait, you’re done?” Temper looks aghast. “How is that fair? I’m not even an important part of this Solstice thing.”

“Don’t worry, Temper,” I say, heading over to our things. “The tailors will be finished soon enough, and I’ll be right here in the meantime.”

“Actually, my lady,” the tailor interrupts, “the king has asked that you join him once you’re finished.”

Oh. Well, then.

“Callie—” Temper begins, a desperate look in her eye.

I shrug, gathering my things. “Sorry, Temper. King’s orders,” I say. “I can’t disobey them.” I head for the door.

“You and I both know he can—” The door closes on the last of her words as I slip out of the dressmaker’s shop.

Do I feel bad running out on Temper?

Not nearly as bad as I probably should. But she’ll be done soon enough, and she can more than hold her own against a few fae dressmakers.

Outside, a soldier waits for me. “My lady.” He bows. “I’m here to escort you to the king.”

I nearly roll my eyes. Of all the pomp.

The two of us wind our way through the palace grounds, heading to one of the towers. The soldier stops at an ornately carved wooden door braced with bronze fittings. He knocks twice, then, bowing again to me, moves into formation against the hallway wall.

Silently, the door swings open, and I step inside. It’s another library—a tower library, judging by the curving walls of books. Several tables take up the center of the room, and on one is a stack of tomes, a partially painted canvas, an abandoned set of paints, and a paintbrush.

But no Night King.

I head over to the table, my footfalls echoing throughout the room. Curious, I pick up the canvas. At first, all I make out is the curve of a waist, the indent of a belly button, and the beginnings of a dusky nipple. But then I notice the forearm lying languorously near the corner of the painting, distinct for its rows and rows of golden scales.

I nearly drop the painting.

This is me.Naked. Sure, it doesn’t show my face, but it doesn’t need to. There’s only one person I know of who has scales on their forearm—me.

This is so obviously Des’s doing.

I take in the painting again, and oh my God, there’s my nipple! Mynipple. He’d been in the midst of painting it when he was called away from his work.

And the fiend isn’t even here for me to confront him.

My eyes move to the pots of paints. On a whim, I grab the paintbrush and dip it into a pot containing black paint. Once I’ve coated the brush, I systematically black out the painting.