AELIA REVA
The morning spills gold through the windows, warm and soft, as though the world itself knows today is different. I stand in front of the tall mirror, staring at my reflection with a mixture of awe and dread. My hair, still undone, falls down my back in waves, and the robe Ulric insisted I wear while "we make the most important decision" swishes around my ankles.
The decision, apparently, is which gown I'll wear for tonight.
And Ulric is treating it as though it's war strategy.
He emerges from the closet with his arms full of silk and lace, holding them up one by one like some overly serious fashion consultant. "This one," he says, lifting a deep brown silk gown, "brings out your eyes. You'll look regal. People will feel honored to look at you. I sure feel honored everyday."
I arch a brow at him in the mirror. "You sound like you are having fun with all this."
