A Song of Faithless Shadows

6. The Shadows of Our Past

Gwyneth

I pass my gaze over my reflection once more. "You know you are more than welcome to my closet, Gwyn," Nesta says, watching me warily. "But I've never seen you look so uncomfortable. Are you sure you wouldn't prefer your priestess robes?"

I laugh nervously. "I think I'd stick out in the clubs, don't you?"

"What happened to embracing the act of turning heads, huh?" Nesta asks, a raised brow.

"This dress looks good on me, right?" Flowy and silver, a slit up the leg.

"Of course it does-"

I grin at her over my shoulder. "So why shouldn't I wear it then?"

Nesta blinks before a smile bleeds onto her face. "I cannot argue with that."

"Can somebody tell me if this dress shows too much cleavage?" Emerie calls from the bedroom.

I snicker as Nesta calls back, "there's no such thing."

Feyre had picked us up from the house of wind, and dropped us in the center of town where Mor and Nesta's other sister were waiting. Elain was as they all say: beautiful and poised. She was the kind of quiet beauty that infected you, that made you too shy to be anything less than perfect in front of her. As it was, I was nervous to even introduce myself to her.

Though I had no reason to be. She took my introduction with kindness, a petal-perfect smile. She didn't engage me further than that, shy herself, but I didn't feel neglected by her silence.

I didn't feel particularly comforted either.

Nesta was the cure to awkward silences, asking Feyre, "is my idiot still at yours tonight?"

Feyre nods. "He wanted to help Rhys watch Nyx, says he's going to miss his favorite nephew when he's on his honeymoon," she says, cracking a smile. "He also says you're hard to be around this close to the wedding."

Nesta scoffs, though anyone could tell she was flattered by it. "Well, you just tell him he's hard to be around all the time."

Emerie takes my hand, and I barely avoid flinching. My friend was very affectionate, and I wouldn't change it about her for the world. Still, it will always take me a moment to get used to it. "What are the priestesses views on drinking?"

"Usually, drinking is reserved for matters of ceremony or celebration, to be done in moderation and restraint," I explain, biting back my grin. "But I'm not technically an official priestess."

Mor and Emerie both let out a holler that is so similar in pitch that they catch eyes, laughing. "Better you two than me," Nesta says, a smirk.

"Are you sure you're fine to-"

"I just want to go dancing," she answers. "The other... distractions couldn't tempt me less these days. I'll be glad to have a night out with you all."

"I won't be drinking either," Feyre adds, nudging her sister. "Designated flyer and all." Emerie's fingers twitch. I squeeze her hand, letting her know I'm here, that I see her.

I had seen it earlier when she looked upon Feyre, when Feyre flew her to the ground. The High Lady was capable of growing wings, purely of her own volition. I knew there was nothing Em wouldn't do to have her wings back, and I know the act of being flown stings like acid.

"I, however, will be drinking," Mor grins, diffusing some of the tension in Em's hand with a seemingly careless joke. "So you all better make sure I don't get sloppy."

Nesta looks at her, that relationship of tolerance between them. "I think that ship has already departed."

The first club we go into is overwhelming to say the least. I was largely used to seeing men by now, but it was always in controlled settings. Training or Illyrian camps or nightly jogs or temple food drives. There was something unbound about the men in this setting though. They moved on whims of their minds and interests, following one thought after the next. They weren't driven by task or routine but rather something internal. Compass. Conquest. I didn't know what it was.