Daylight made everything look cheaper.
The glitter from the Winter Gala had lost its enchanted shimmer overnight, reduced to nothing more than stray flecks catching the weak January sunlight on Americus's vanity mirror and a few stubborn sequins tangled in the borrowed shawl Silver had draped over her desk chair. What had seemed magical and transformative under the warm glow of chandeliers now looked tawdry and artificial, like stage makeup examined under harsh fluorescent lights.
Even the memory of Carroway's kiss felt different in the unforgiving clarity of morning—less like a romantic gesture and more like something calculated, performed rather than felt.
