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I let my mind ponder the question, trying to find a solution around that. I would have loved to offer her a better view than iron walls.

“So, your lab?” she prompted, tearing herself from the view with difficulty.

“We’re close—I think. I rarely come this way.”

But we reached a seldom-used entrance shortly after, entering the single largest room in the entire manor—twice the size of any of the libraries, three times the size of the ballroom.

Several walls had been knocked down to build the large work station my friends like to call my crypt.

As we stepped inside, Kleos’s eyes were everywhere, but she asked no questions, and I didn’t volunteer information. We’d be here until next week if I explained everything I was up to down here.

The thing about Highvale in general, and the underside in particular, was that because most of the inhabitants were immortal or pretty close to it, things tended to evolve at the speed of a crippled snail.

It wasn’t that improvements were impossible, but people were genuinely happy to continue the ways of their ancestors without questioning whether there was a better method, on several aspect of their daily lives.

I questionedeverything. And, however ironic for a descendant of Hypnos, I slept very little. So instead, I tinkered. I played. I created, innovated, improved. That had made mericher than everyone here, because I sold the most useful of my inventions for literal piles of gold. They earned me even more than the occasional summoning.

I opened up companies to manage and distribute some of them, leaving the day-to-day operation off my plate. My only interest was solving problems. As soon as they were sorted out, I let other people handle the business side.

Just before we reached our destination, Kleos gasped in front of the centerpiece of one of the alcove: a dark dress glittering with many sparkles and a train.

“Ah, yes.” I activated the lighting around the alcove so we’d have a better view. “This was for my mother, but she’ll think it too showy. I need to tone down the diamonds.”

“It’sperfect!” she protested, hands inching toward the fabric.

She stopped herself before touching. I wouldn’t have minded if she had. “I’ve never seen anything like it. An Oscar-worthy dress, but with magic?”

I nodded. “Potions and spells are dangerous. Iunderstandwhy people work in formal, spelled robes covering as much as possible—it’s just like lab coats for scientists, only a little more efficient. But do they have to look awful?” I bemoaned. “I started a company of spelled outwear—coats and suits, mostly, but also dresses, for my mother’s sake. See?” I pointed to the edges of the empire neckline. “The gold threads contain the webbing of an invisible shield and ensure that even the bits uncovered by fabric, like her head and neck, will be protected the moment the clasp at the back is closed. It took a fair bit of spell work to nail that, and for the time being, she also needs to wear a small spelled item in her hair. But it’s a full shield, more efficient than an old dusty cloak.”

“That’sgenius. And gorgeous. Who actually designed it, you?”

“My cousin,” I replied. “Specifically for Mother. My purview is the magic, not female fashion. My only input was the sleeves.”

“That’s just incredible.”

“It wouldn’t be useful to you,” I said. “It’s a magic shield, not armor. If someone stabs you—or slices you open—it doesn’t do much, so I don’t think it would work against that rune ritual.”

Otherwise, I would have offered her the dress, though it wasn’t exactly her style.

I was shocked to recall with astounding clarity at least two dozen different outfits I’d seen her in for formal celebrations in the Hall of Truce. She wore light colors, girly, flirty dresses, generally longer than knee length, and covering a fair amount of skin, like a demure, obedient little princess. But if it could help, style wouldn’t have mattered.

“I feel like a line of clothing like that would be very popular with, well,everyone,” she continued. “Why don’t you sell your work?”

“I do.” I grinned. “I even have a store in the vale.”

“Really?”

“Yep. Witch Styles.”

She gasped. “You own Witch Styles?” After a second, she said, “You know what, I’m not actually surprised. Why wouldn’t you own Styles? Man, I walked in there once and practically had a heart attack at the price of a shawl. Everything was so beautiful.”

I hesitated, deciding not to mention UnderStyles—the twin of the valer boutique, only down here, on Life Avenue—where I sold the same items for a tenth of the price.

Witch Styles was an international brand; UnderStyles was a social choice, only available to my community.

Of course, Kleos wasn’t part of my community, and she might find it unfair. Which it was.

Being unfair to valers was the only way to be fair to unders.