Page 159 of Mother of Death and Dawn

Then I got up, threw on a shirt and my trousers—gods, I was a bit sore—and opened the door.

Ishqa looked unhappy enough that I decided not to point out that it was the second time that he had interrupted my nice moment with his grim tidings.

“You made it back,” I said, relieved.

Ishqa said, “We need to talk.”

“Sounds like bad news,” Max said, leaning against the doorframe as he shook out his own crumpled-up shirt.

Ishqa looked genuinely perplexed by this comment. “Is there any other type?”

CHAPTERSIXTY

AEFE

Istared at myself in the mirror.

For months, I had avoided doing that. I didn’t like to look at myself and see a stranger who was nothing but a mimicry of a person I used to be many years ago. Now, for the first time in a long time, I realized that perhaps there was more to see in myself.

Or perhaps I only felt it because I was dressed… well, like this.

My gown was long enough to brush the ground, sparkling ebony chiffon pooling at my feet. The fabric was dark as the night sky, woven with tiny threads of silver, so as the dress hugged the swells or dips of my body, the light did too. It was tight across my breasts, my waist, and my hips, before flaring out into loose layers of black over my legs, with a high slit that allowed me to walk somewhat easily. The neckline plunged in a sharp V that ended at my sternum, held up by silver straps over my shoulders. Two long strips fell down my back like a cape.

My face had been painstakingly painted, my lips colored with a tiny brush dipped in crimson, my eyes lined and powdered and lined again with shades of purple and brown and black. My hair piled atop my head, several strands of deep red dangling around my cheeks.

When the maid finally allowed me to look in the mirror, the shock of it stunned me into silence. In the week since we had returned from Niraja, I’d felt like an exhausted, walking corpse. Now, though my injuries had not fully healed, I looked like an entirely different person.

“Beautiful,” the maid said. She sounded a bit surprised.

At first, it seemed strange to adorn this body. Like decorating a prison cell. But…

I drew my eyes over my form. I had grown more muscular, my posture stronger. I no longer looked like someone inhabiting a vessel that did not fit me. This was a powerful body. I had used it to do incredible things.

Perhaps that was worth adorning.

Still, something here didn’t seem quite right.

The maid let out a strangled gasp of horror as I drew the back of my hand across my eyes, smearing the sharp perfection of my eyeliner, and then my lips, blotting down the bright red.

“Oh no, why would you—”

At last, I smiled at myself. My lips were stained as if by berries. Darkness now smudged my eyes, enhancing their size and downturned shape.

There. This was me.

“Much better,” I said.

The maid looked like she was about to cry.

The door opened, and Meajqa and Luia entered. Meajqa’s eyes ran up my body, brows arching. “I suspected you’d clean up nicely, but I have to say, this exceeds my expectations.”

He looked magnificent himself. He wore black trousers that followed the shape of his legs and a long jacket made from threads of many shades of gold. A long swath of metallic bronze draped from his hip over one shoulder, hanging down his back between his wings. I’d seen many of his kind wear similar clothing, but I wondered if this style was chosen for reasons beyond fashion—the fabric partially covered the stump of his missing wing.

Luia was just as impressively dressed, donning embroidered trousers in deep emerald green and a long white jacket that flared out behind her with every step. Still, she looked unhappy. “We should be working,” she grumbled. “Not wasting time on festivals.”

Meajqa scoffed. “So negative. We have dead to send off. We have a victory to celebrate and a war to survive. It sounds like a perfect time to get uproariously drunk to me.”

What he did not say aloud still came to me clearly:Because we might not have the chance to again.

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