Page 72 of Every Shade of Shadow

That said, it also seems like the kind of place where someone might paint a scarlet letter on your forehead and drown you in the nearest body of water.

We pass a shop simply named Antiques, or so says the calligraphic sign out front. A cuckoo clock catches my eye, a light brown rocking chair a bit further back that is a dead ringer for Gran’s—probably sold off now with the rest of her belongings.

“What about a new ’do?” asks Lily, nudging me in the ribs in the direction of a shop simply titled Hair.

“I really hope that is a salon and not a shop that sells actual hair.”

“No, it’s a salon,” says Ava casually, “though I wouldn’t expect any styles from this century. Adams is a bit backwards like that, and I mean it in the very best way.”

“Classy,” I commend with a smile.

“Adams is so damn nice,” Lily speaks her mind, Ava nodding in agreement beside her. “Nothing much happens around here. Ever. I’m already considering retiring here. In like a million years from now when I’m rich and famous and definitely not involved in the family biz.”

“Good call,” I laugh.

“And bingo,” Lily says. “We have arrived.”

Excitement builds as I take in front of the store titled Dress. Five super fucking creepy mannequins are outfitted in vintage gowns facing the street.

I turn to Lily before we enter. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Absolutely,” she confirms with a nod. “Like I said, every witch has to have at least one spectacular ball gown, wouldn’t you say?”

I wouldn’t, no, but I’m not about to turn down the offer. “Well, I thank you then,” I tell her, offering up another abomination of a curtsey.

Lily thumbs at Ava. “Thank us, actually, because Corpse Bride here is paying half.”

Ava gives a sour look but doesn’t protest, instead stepping past us and opening the door to the store, a bell chiming overhead.

The shopkeeper, a plump, elderly woman with a knitting-circle smile, brings me gown after gown to try on in the singular changing room.

But it’s nice being the center of attention for once. These dresses aren’t Dior, but they’re incredible in their own, eccentric way.

Lily’s not afraid to voice her opinions—rather vocally—Ava a touch more subtle.

In the end, I settle on a navy, sleeveless number with a side slit and silk white gloves.

Lily insists I do not look at the price tag but judging the look of surprise on Ava’s face when the register (another relic) is rung up, it can’t have been cheap.

“It’s going to be boner central with you in that thing at the ball. Makes you totally fuckable. I mean, I’d go there,” says Lily, which I’m pretty sure is a joke.

“It does…suit you,” Ava smiles, and yeah, I’m talking an actual lip-curling smile.

For all her inherent doom and gloom, she might be starting to grow on me.

Lily insists we hit a tavern on the edge of town. It sits right at the end of the main street in whitewashed stucco, the swinging sign above the door reading, wait for it, Tavern.

It’s got the same vintage, mothy smell to it inside as the dress store. We find a table near the entrance with a window looking down the street.

Ava goes off to order at the bar.

“Someone looks pleased,” Lily says, watching me from the other side of the table.

It’s true. I’m sitting here with that rare combination of relaxation and joy flowing through me. For once, I’m not the one waiting tables, not wondering where my next meal is coming from or where I’m going to sleep. For once, things seem headed in the right direction—the Professor and his desires aside.

“It’s all a bit different to the Big Apple.”

“New York, New York,” Lily smiles.

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