Page 118 of Tarnished Queen

But Elise wrinkles her nose. “You’re going to dinner, not brunch. Put on a dress.”

“Since when did you become the fashion expert?” I want to remind her that a couple months ago, she didn’t even own a pair of shoes that weren’t held together with duct tape. When we came to live with Nikolai, he didn’t just upgrade my wardrobe—he also made sure Elise could buy whatever she wanted. Apparently, it’s turned her into a critic.

“I’m not. But I follow people who are,” she says. “And unless you know you’re going somewhere casual, you want to be prepared for anything. That calls for a little black dress.”

“Isn’t that a little cliché?”

“It’s timeless,” she retorts. “There’s a difference. Put on a little black dress with a pair of flats, some basic jewelry, and pull your hair back with that bronze clip you have. That way, you’ll look casual, but if the place you go is really fancy, you can take your hair down easily.”

I want to be a cynic for no other reason than that I don’t want to get fashion advice from my barely-teenaged sister, but the girl knows what she is talking about. It’s a good plan.

“I can tell you want to thank me,” she adds, “but you are just far too overwhelmed and/or hideously ashamed of how washed-up you are. Either way, you’re welcome.”

I snort. “You’re ridiculous.”

“But you love me.” She blows me a kiss just as I hear Howard’s voice in the background calling, “Sandwiches are ready!”

“Ope, my food is ready.” She waves her fingers under her chin. “I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”

“First thing in the morning,” I remind her.

“That’ll be the middle of the night for you, goober.”

“So?” I shrug.

She rolls her eyes. “You’re ridiculous, B.”

“I love you.”

She tries and fails to suppress a smile. “I love you, too.”

As soon as I close my laptop, I fish through my closet for everything Elise said I should wear. And when I pull on the outfit, there is no denying that my sister has an eye for fashion.

I look great.

The black dress cuts way up on my thighs, but the high neck balances everything out so I don’t look too flashy. With my hair up, I could be going to a concert or a bar. But as soon as the hair comes down, I’m ready for a formal sit-down restaurant.

I snap a quick picture and send it to Elise. A millisecond later, she responds.

Elise: Yep. You’re welcome.

I smile and check my messages, but there’s nothing from Nikolai. No word from him yet. As if on cue, my stomach rumbles.

My outfit isn’t the only thing Elise was right about: I’m getting hangry. I consider texting Nikolai to see when he’s coming back, but I don’t want to seem clingy. Instead, I decide to head down to the kitchen to wait for him. And if I just so happen to look in the pantry and grab a small snack while I wait, who would ever know?

With the promise of a packaged blueberry muffin in my future, I hurry down to the kitchen. I’m so busy beelining for the pantry that it takes me a couple seconds to realize the kitchen isn’t empty.

I skid to a stop in front of the island just as Nikolai’s personal chef looks over her shoulder at me.

“Hi there!” she greets. “I am finishing up and then I was going to have one of the maids come get you. But I guess I don’t need to do that anymore.”

The woman is on the backside of fifty, but just barely. She has gray-streaked black hair pulled back in a ponytail and a green apron tied around her waist. Her name escapes me, but Nikolai said he’s had her on staff for years. Typically, she cooks his meals in her own kitchen and then delivers them each morning to be reheated. But sometimes, she cooks things fresh when he requests it.

Considering she’s standing over a sizzling skillet right now, he must have requested it. The smell of garlic and spices has my sputtering stomach practically leaping out of my body to get at whatever she is cooking.

“Is Nikolai here?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “No. He told me he’d be out tonight, but he wanted to make sure you were fed.”

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