Page 21 of The Witch & the Hound
"Don't be embarrassed! It's romantic." She held up a burgundy sheath dress. "What do you think?"
"I think I look like I'm going to a funeral."
"Fair." She tossed it aside and pulled out a forest green wrap dress. "This one?"
I took it reluctantly, holding it up against myself in the mirror. It was pretty, long-sleeved for October weather, with a neckline that showed collarbones without being obscene.
"Try it on," Mrs. Carroll ordered, shoving me toward the changing room before I could protest.
The dress fit. That was the problem. It actually fit—hugged my hips, draped nicely over my stomach, made my waist look like something other than a vague suggestion between my ribs and thighs. The color brought out the warmth in my skin, made my freckles look intentional instead of accidental.
I looked like someone who went on dates.
"Let me see," Mrs. Carroll called from outside the curtain.
I stepped out, arms crossed defensively over my chest.
Her eyes went soft. "Oh, honey. That's the one."
"It's too much."
"It's perfect." She circled me, adjusting the sleeves, tugging the hem. "You look beautiful."
The bell over the door chimed. I turned, expecting another customer.
Instead, three women filed in like a tactical unit: the bakery owner and—oh God—Mrs. Kelvin, who ran the salon next door, along with another woman in a matching smock.
"We heard Maggie was shopping for a dress," the bakery owner announced, holding up a to-go cup. "Brought coffee."
I stared. "How did you—"
"Small town," they chorused.
Mrs. Kelvin circled me critically. "Turn."
I turned, feeling like livestock at auction.
"The dress is good," she declared. "But those curls need help. When's the last time you deep-conditioned?"
"I... don't know?"
She tsked. "Come by tomorrow. Eleven AM. We'll fix it."
"I don't need—"
"Yes, you do." The other woman stepped forward, examining my hands. "And these cuticles are a tragedy. After your hair, I'll do your nails."
"I work with lye," I protested weakly. "My hands are always—"
"Tomorrow," she said firmly. "Eleven AM."
I looked at Mrs. Carroll for help. She just grinned. "Welcome to Seaview, honey. We take care of our own."
My throat tightened. "I've lived here for five years."
"Yes," Mrs. Carroll said gently. "But you've been hiding for five years. Now you're letting someone see you. That matters."
The bakery owner pressed the coffee into my hands. "Drink. You look like you need it."
