Page 22 of Mistress of Lies
But still, the home was lovely, and that made him hate it all the more. It wasn’t even something he could mock, gaudy and tacky and reeking of wealth.
“Lord Aberforth,” the footman announced, and Samuel glanced up to see Shan in the parlor; a room that had been cleared and transformed into a makeshift tailor’s studio, and she was talking with a woman maybe twenty years their senior.
Shan turned to him with a smile, and he was struck with how different she looked. The previous night she had dressed to make herself a shadow, to blend in with the crowds, to hide everything that marked her as different.
Today, she was a proper Lady, dressed in a deep blue gown that could have been plucked from the night sky, sprinkled with little sparkles that caught the eye like stars. It was fitted as if it had been made for her—and it probably had—with a tight corset and a skirt that spun out from around her waist. She wore her hair loose, a cascade of dark curls that edged on just the polite side of messy.
He wasn’t a fool; he knew it was a carefully calculated choice on her part. She was showing off the riches that she had, that he could have, by wearing such a thing so casually. But even though he knew she was manipulating him, he couldn’t deny the effect it most definitely had.
His mouth suddenly dry, he inclined his head to her. “My lady. Forgive me, I appear to be underdressed.”
Shan smiled. “That’s what we’re here to fix. May I introduce Madame Laurens? She is the best tailor in Aeravin.” She ran her hand down her bodice and towards her skirt, and Samuel was unable to stop himself from following the path of her fingers. “She made this. It’s all the rage in the Courts of Lumerie.”
Samuel had heard tales of the Courts of Lumerie, a nation to the south whose court was so decadent it rivalled the Blood Workers of Aeravin. They were the height of fashion and culture—what was popular one year swept out across the world the next, like ripples in a pond.
Laurens scoffed as she stepped up to them, an older woman with dark skin and strong features. She wore a suit of deep red, not the color of freshly spilt blood but of richest wine, tailored to fit her trim figure. “There is no need to talk me up, girl. You wore that dress for yourself, and you know it.”
Shan made a noise of polite distress, but there was sudden laughter from the doorway. Samuel turned to find a young man leaning against the door, lounging in so deliberately casual a manner that it had to be affected. From the first glance Samuel knew that this had to be the brother Shan mentioned, the twin that his research had confirmed. The Unblooded one.
He had all his sister’s elegance honed to a predator’s grace. He was tall and thin and incredibly beautiful, and the smirk he wore proved that he was very aware of it. Samuel couldn’t help but immediately compare him to Shan. They had the same features—the wide cheekbones, the wide nose, the narrow eyes. They were mirrors of each other, but he was harsh and brash where Shan was elegant and deadly. He was a club, and she was a blade.
His heavy gaze landed briefly on Samuel, then slid right on by to Laurens. “Glad to see someone here has sense.”
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite subject.” Laurens grinned, holding out her arms, and he crossed the room to give her a quick hug and a peck on the cheek. “But I’m not here for you.”
“Unfortunately not,” Antonin said, tugging at the sleeves of his shirt. “My sister has more important uses for you.”
“That I do,” Shan said, at last stepping forward. She linked her arm through Samuel’s, guiding him forward, and the light touch sent shivers across his skin. “Samuel, this is my brother, Sir Antonin LeClaire, though you can call him Anton. Anton, this is Lord Samuel Aberforth.”
“Ah, yes,” Antonin—no, Anton—said, glancing down at him.
“Just Samuel is fine,” Samuel muttered, and Shan swatted him on the arm.
“You’re a Lord,” she said, “and he is not. You should go by Aberforth amongst your lessers, at the least, unless they are amongst your most intimate friends.”
Samuel frowned. “And we are not friends?”
Anton laughed. “No. Not yet.” The coldness of his gaze made Samuel think that they might never be friends, that Anton might not want them to be friends, and he forced himself to look away.
Perhaps it was foolish of him to even ask. He looked to Shan for help, but she just gestured Laurens forward.
“We still have work to do,” Laurens said as she pushed past Anton, who broke off from the group. She took Samuel by the chin, turning his face left and right as she studied him. “He’s a fine specimen, though a bit on the skinny side. That’s all right, though. Long lines and lean silhouettes are in this season.”
“You’ll dress him, then?” Shan asked.
Laurens smiled, and there was something hungry about it. “If you’re going to parade him around Dameral, girl, he might as well have the best.”
Samuel quickly glanced between them. “Is this really necessary?”
“Consider this your first lesson, Samuel,” Shan said, as Laurens pushed him onto the pedestal. “Appearances matter more than almost anything else.”
He stood there, following Laurens’ wordless orders to lift his arms. She circled around him, suddenly quiet and serious, as she took his measurements. “I’m sure there is more to it than that.”
“Yes and no,” Shan admitted. “But if you came before the King in those clothes we’d get nowhere at all. A proper outfit opens many doors, but it’s still up to you to walk through them.”
“So that’s it? We’re getting me a suit?”
Laurens scoffed behind his back. “To start with. Then a whole wardrobe from there.”