The Shadows that Listen by Louisa Carmody

Author:Louisa Carmody [Carmody, Louisa]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: anonymous
Published: 2025-01-09T00:00:00+00:00

twenty-seven

Mirabelle is not my favourite person. It’s clear I’m not hers either, and that the last thing she’d like to be doing right now is combing through my tangled hair and trying to make me look presentable. It’s quite the challenge after I’ve spent two days fighting for my life in a war that they pretend doesn’t exist.

I fought with her for nearly an hour over what she insisted I wear. I pleaded for pants, for a belt, for boots, for something I can fight in. The best she could do was a long red silk gown with a slit that reaches the top of my thigh. She said if I was desperate for a fight, the slit would at least allow for more movement, though I’d argue that the strapless design counteracts that. It’s tight around my chest, with a curved neckline that points up at the corners. The dress flares out from my waist, flowing behind me in a cascade of red silk.

It’s ridiculous, all of this.

In any other circumstance, I’d admire the beauty of the gown. I’d admire the fact that it somehow makes me feel more like a princess than a soldier. I haven’t worn a dress like this… Well, ever. I’ve never had a need, nor have I been able to afford one. In another life, I’d love to live the kind of lavish lifestyle where this attire is mundane. When feeling this beautiful isn’t part of a situation I’ve been forced into, but rather because it’s who I am.

In this life, I itch for a blade to tuck into my waistband or strap to my thigh. I wish for a weapon to hold against the throat of the person responsible for violating my privacy.

Human or not.

“Sit still.” Mirabelle has grunted these words to me more times than I can count in the past thirty minutes as she pokes and prods at my hair.

I flinch when she tugs at a stubborn strand. “Is this really necessary?”

“Vince insists that his guests are dressed appropriately for dinner.” It’s the only response I’ve managed to get out of her, carefully worded, perfectly rehearsed.

“Who is he?”

Nothing.

“What is this place?”

Nothing.

“Are you here willingly?”

Nothing.

Mirabelle lets out a sigh of relief when she pins the last strand of hair into place and gestures to the mirror. I gape at my reflection.

My natural waves have been drawn into an elegant up-do that sits on the nape of my neck. A few loose curls hang here and there, framing my face perfectly, the gold strands perfectly woven within them. She’s painted my lips a deep red that matches the dress, making them appear more plump and healthy than they ever have. My skin has a light layer of foundation, enough to cover the scratches but not so much that it hides my freckles. My eyes are shadowed with natural colours, emphasising the black lines on the lids that flick out at the sides. The golden flecks in my eyes sparkle under the room’s chandelier.

I look like a stranger.

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