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Daxeel just flicks his gaze to me for a heartbeat, just a split moment in time. But in that moment, a small smile ghosts over his lips—then it’s gone.

I don’t speak to him.

He doesn’t speak to me.

I am sprawled out on my front. He lounges on his back.

I keep to the moonlight. He sticks to the shade.

Yet we spend the lesson side-by-side, in silence.

The first of many times we spent lessons together.

4

††††††

I don’t bother leaving the tower until Eamon comes to find me.

By the time he does, I’ve polished off the remaining honeywine and valerian up here. Maybe it’s my way of saying goodbye to the tower, or my way of telling Daxeel to go fuck himself.

Either way, I loopholed my way right out of a command.

‘I suggest you use your spare hours cleaning yourself up.’

Only a suggestion.

And I suggest that Daxeel fucks a cactus, but here we are.

‘Dress nice…’

That’s one I can’t ignore.

That command struck through my bones.

His suggestion to make myself clean for him wasn’t a true command, so of course, I didn’t. And I won’t.

I carry the filth of two naps, a lot of tears, sobbing fits, and the outside air, little grains of dust and sand that can’t be avoided.

Eamon speaks nothing of my need for a wash as he peels me off the cushions on the tower. He supports my drunken weight back to my bedchamber.

If this is the only way I can stand up to Daxeel, or just give him a hard time, then I’ll commit.

Next on the list of ways to piss him off—dress nice.

That’s subjective.

Nice to me, nice to him, might not be the same as nice to another. So I’m grateful to past-me for packing ribbons, corsets, and puffy tulle dresses. That’s nice to some. My father thought so at least, so he boughtit—the ghastly yellow dress that I lay out over the table in my bedchamber as Eamon finishes packing my belongings.

The lace trim along the skirt, layers and layers of it, is enough to bring a smile to my lips. That smile only widens when I run my fingertips over the bell sleeves where golden ribbons are tied into large and heavy bows.

It even comes with a wide-rim hat that’s accentuated by a stuffed canary and some bleached peacock feathers.

Oh, this will do. This will do nicely.

Eamon thinks so, too.

I hear his steps flatten on the floorboards as he moves for me, slowly, carefully, afraid to trigger a sobbing fit. But then he pauses, falters—then chokes on a laugh.