Page 80 of The Unweaver

Anita’s hardened resignation told Cora she wasn’t looking for sympathy or apologies. Just stating a fact.

“Let’s go somewhere else.”

“Savvy?” Anita held open the shop’s door with a determined glint in her eye. “My lady.”

“No blacks,” sniped the woman behind the counter, tapping a sign on the wall where her racism was displayed in bold letters.

“She’s my…” Cora searched for the word, wishing she hadn’t smoked quite so much grass.

“Maid,” Anita provided.

The shopkeeper didn’t buy it. Cora was dressed more like a maid than Anita was in her mink and diamonds. She slapped the sign on the wall again.

Rather than crumpling, Anita squared her shoulders, told the shopkeeper where she could stick her sign, and waltzed out.

Cora had enough time to nick the gloves she’d been eyeing before catching up to Anita’s brisk stride halfway down the street. They said nothing. There was nothing to say.

A sigh escaped Cora’s lips when she slid the gloves on. They’d been exposed for far too long.

Anita glanced from the stolen gloves to Cora and howled with laughter. “Maybe you are as fun as Teddy, love.”

Her twin’s name was like an anchor on her heart.

The next shop was on a less fashionable street, but was run by mages and their human kin, Anita told her, as Bane’s businesses were. The shopkeeper was more welcoming, her manners crisp but cordial. The wares, while less luxurious, were still an overwhelming bounty to Cora.

Now among mages, new prejudices sprung. Cora peered at the shopper’s faces, hoping no one would recognize her for what she was yet. How fast could Bane’s gang have spread the news in less than a day?

She bumped into a woman carrying a bundle of garments. Cora looked down. The woman looked up. Terror spread across her face. Sucking in a breath, she dropped the garments and fled.

Cora’s heart sank. Bad news traveled fast. By now, news of the Unweaver had probably spread like plague across Britain. By now, a train couldn’t get her far enough away from London. She’d need a ship. Or a shovel.

She was about to make her own escape when her gaze snagged on Anita haggling with the shopkeeper. Anita had faced down prejudice with a stiff spine. Rejection hadn’t dampened her enthusiasm in the slightest. The Sanguimancer’s confidence was impervious to the fickleness of others.

Acute stabs of judgment for Cora were chronic lashings for Anita. To others, Cora’s faults lay hidden beneath her skin while Anita’s perceived faults were skin deep.

The shame Cora dragged around like chains had been galvanized over a lifetime, the links forged by the nuns, Felix, Mother, countless others. Even if, god forbid, Bane was right, she couldn’t unshackle herself from them. But perhaps she could loosen them so they chafed less.

Instead of letting the woman’s terror crush her, instead of caving under the deepening shame, she stood a little straighter. It felt… unnatural.

As they shopped, Anita regaled her with gang gossip. Who was fucking whom? Everyone, apparently, all the time. Dimitri’s lovemaking was so tender Anita had been half-convinced she was in love with him afterwards. Who was trying to kill whom? Also everyone, all the time.

Each dress Cora tried on was more exquisite than the last. Fine fabrics and simple patterns, elaborately embroidered, embellished with rhinestones, shimmering with fringe. The newest fashions were liberating. Waistlines had dropped and hems had risen. The sight of her own calves was strangely satisfying. The whisper of silk on her skin felt sinful.

Spurred by Anita’s encouragement and a cannabis-inspired recklessness, she racked up a fortune on silk stockings, laceychemises, beaded dresses, fur-trimmed coats, and boots that didn’t have holes in them.

Cora didn’t recognize her own reflection. The girl haunted by death stared into the mirror and a stylish stranger stared back. She’d make an easy mark in these rich rags. The luxuries filled her with guilt. “I can’t possibly buy all this.”

Anita wouldn’t hear it. She told the shopkeeper to put it on Mal’s tab and the woman didn’t bat an eye. Cora wondered how many other womenMalhad purchased clothes for here. When she caught her reflection again, she saw a rich man’s mistress. The new wool scarf felt like a collar.

Cora insisted on paying for everything. It was still his money, but she didn’t want to be any more indebted to Bane than she already was. Her deal with the devil could always get worse. Her insistence swayed nobody. Mal’s account was charged. Cora kept a mental tab of what she owed him, wondering how he’d make her pay him back.

The shopkeeper offered to dispose of her old clothes. Anita offered to burn them. Instead, she gave them to a girl cowering in the back alley. In the grim lines of the girl’s sooty face Cora saw herself. She wanted to reassure the girl that it would get better. The lie died in her throat.

Unwanted children, if they were very lucky, would survive to be unwanted adults. She handed the girl a fistful of money, instructing her to hide it and tell no one.

Cora walked down the cobblestone street, new clothes on the same hollow woman.

They loaded their purchases back to the car, peeled into traffic, and sped perilously away. Nails biting into the leather seat, Cora wished she had another marijuana stick.

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