I found Christine in the attic, huddled on the mess she called a bed, an open book at her feet and her great brown eyes just staring into the darkness. A single candle attempted to light the room, and if it worked enough for her she did not give a sign. I entered silently, but correctly—actually bothering to use the door. I even considered knocking, but I wasn't sure if a soft rap would win her attention or simply be something she ignored. So I opened it and stepped in.
I felt empty. Never before had I experienced empty. Empty was something rumored to be for the dead but that was the rumor of folklore who were blind to the ways of death and Heaven and the spirit world. At my death I had felt pain and horror. Heaven, peace. Wandering, excitement, purpose.
Now, with the secret of my death out, I now felt nothing. The pain that had thrown me to the ground had burned itself out. My insides were ashes. I supposed it was better that way.
Christine did not look up as I approached. Her knees were into her chest and her hair fell about her. Ever the ghost she was. More than me.
"Christine," I said quietly.
She did not shake from her steady stare. "Go away, Fawn."
"No."
"What do you mean? I thought you were supposed to listen to me. I have you a command. Go away."
"It doesn't work that."
"I thought you were here to help me. You can help me by listening to me and leaving. You don't want to talk to me right now. You barely want to look at me. In fact, you want to be gone from my life immediately. So go." She took a deep breath and released it with a sigh that filled the entire room. "I don't want to talk to you either."
"How dare you tell me what I feel."
She finally moved, flipping hair from her shoulder. "You won't tell me. So I will. You hate me right now. Despise me. What other great words exist for expressing how bitter you feel towards me?"
I sighed and crossed the room. "For Heaven's sake, Christine, I don't hate you! Why would I hate you?" And that was true. I did not hate her.
She put a finger to her chin. "Really? You don't hate me? Yet apparently you think enough to ask about it! Sensing doubt, fairy godmother?"
She was unbelievably stubborn. "Christine—"
"Let's see what I've done. My father ordered your death. Your prince, your fiancé, has turned to me. Are neither of those good enough reasons to hate me?"
I closed my eyes. "Neither of those were your fault."
"I spoke to Prince Wyatt. I dared to write him. I traveled with him."
"And I can hardly blame you for those things."
She slammed the book shut. "I came up here. I don't want to deal with my stepsisters. I don't want to deal with Melissa. I don't want to deal with you. Do you have any idea who I am, Fawn? I'm the poor daughter of a dead historian. No noble blood whatsoever. My father had to marry into that. And what good did it do me? I became a slave the moment my father was put into the earth. I'm a thief and a liar and am unable to keep myself decently on my own lowly station."
I sat down next to her. "I thought we were friends."
"That's what I thought, too. Apparently that's not true."
"Why is that so? You have not listened to a single thing I say. Yes, I'm here to help you. And so some of that help just might require you listening to me. I don't hate you. You have done nothing. I'm here for you! Not your father, not Melissa. You." It wasn't until the final word was out of my mouth that I realized I had all but screamed it.
Christine sniffed. "Such friendship. I love how you express it."
I took a deep breath and calmed myself. Yet the feeling was good. A tiny bit of anger lighting up that emptiness and all those ashes. What had Bernard done to me that I could feel such a thing?
"You're going to that ball, Christine," I said, rising.
"No, I'm not."
"Don't you want to go?"
"No."
"Wyatt expects you." The phrase stabbed more pain into my heart.
She was silent for a long time. "No."
"You have to go."
"Wyatt isn't mine."
I watched her, that sad little girl on the bed and suddenly I did feel something that might have been mistaken for hate. Not her. Just everything she did.
"He's not mine, either," I said. I left the room.
The room I found was empty, save for a few dusty portraits leaning against a wall. A storage room, I imagined, barely more than a closet, forgotten over the years, though I liked to imagine that once it had served a greater purpose. Now it would.
I prepared the dress from magic. Magic was what Christine needed, that and a desperate need to just stand up for herself. Apparently magic was all I could give. I had always made my own illusions. My signature cloak was one of them, woven from my own thoughts and the very air around. I did the same with this dress. It would be tangible, of course. It would be real, at least for that night, and Christine and everyone else would be able to see it and touch it and feel it.
I was proud of it as I worked, even as I could hear Bernard's insistence I help Christine. Part of me wanted to just ignore everything he ever did or said, but he was right. This was my duty. The dress was beautiful. I took inspiration from every grand dress I had seen over the years, though I had enough sense to make it modern. Just with all the perks of anything beautiful. This dress would stand out.
I didn't imagine it, like I did with my own clothes. I let my fingers fly through the air, touching and grabbing and pulling. I had never made clothing before and I doubted this was anything like it, but for me it was work, the slow creation of something incredible. The skirt was a complicated cut, flowing wider and wider till it would spill upon the floor when Christine moved. The bodice was tight, and the neckline I embroidered with roses.
The color was yellow. Christine would be enchanting in pale yellow.
I worked through the night, all my thoughts on the creation of the dress. Slow, methodical. It was the greatest magic I had ever done.
Last I made the slippers. I had imagined them to be golden, but I realized it would never do. The dress color was too pale and would be overwhelmed. So I made them crystal clear.
I could almost see them sparkling on the dance floor.
