The Royal Wardrobe was a cavernous room filled with the ghosts of past monarchs—silks, velvets, and furs smelling of lavender and mothballs.
Mirabelle stood in front of a tall mirror, staring at her reflection. She looked exactly like what she was: a tired Queen in a riding habit, worn down by war and fear. That woman couldn't walk into the Shadow Market. That woman would be eaten alive.
"Too wholesome," Revas critiqued from behind her.
He was rummaging through a trunk of old accessories, tossing aside tiaras and sashes.
"You look like you're about to open a library," he continued. "The Shadow Market is a cesspool, Mirabelle. To walk among wolves, you have to look like you have teeth."
He pulled out a gown. It wasn't one of her practical, high-necked dresses. It was a relic from her grandmother's era, a deep, blood-red velvet with a neckline that plunged dangerously low and sleeves that flared like bat wings.
