Page 119 of Spearcrest Prince

The gallery is crowded with fine arts and photography students putting the finishing touches to their displays. Everyone looks nervous.

I search the room with a glance but can see no sign of Sev. I’m tempted to go have a look at his display, which he put together at the last minute, but he made me promise to wait for the night of the exhibition to see it.

“I’m not writing that speech for nothing,” he said to me when he made me promise. “So you better wait to hear it before you see my display. Then it’ll at least be worth it.”

“It’s not me you need to impress, though,” I told him.

He’d rolled his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous, trésor. You’re the only person at that exhibition I would actually care about impressing.”

It’s probably a lie—but a beautiful lie. Still, I can’t deny how much I want to see his display, his interpretation ofAletheia.

I suspect Sev finds it much easier to lie to himself with his mind and mouth than with his camera.

Later that evening, I return to my room to find a box waiting for me on my bed. A large, slim box in white cardboard, tied shut with a thick ribbon of blue satin.

I pull the ribbon open to find a card of cream paper. I pick it up.

There’s a handwritten note there in elegant cursive:To wear tomorrow night. If you wish, of course. Yours, S.

I open the lid to find a delicate bed of white tissue paper and, folded within it, a dress in deep, royal blue. Picking it up, I unfold it.

It’s an exquisite garment: a full skirt and a stiff bodice embroidered with gold birds, moons and stars.

We were told by our teachers that the exhibition would be a formal event, but I didn’t give much thought to what I would wear. Trust Sev to think about it. Trust him to be this extravagant.

Trust him to choose something so beautiful. Not something I would have expected him to choose—but something I might have chosen myself.

Onthenightofthe exhibition, Miss Imez gathers all the students in the atrium of the arts building for a final briefing. I walk in a little unsteadily, my stomach in knots. I don’t know why I feel so nervous: we’ve already been awarded our final marks, and I won’t know anybody at the exhibition.

So why are my legs wobbly and my hands sweaty?

I walk into the atrium to find most of the other students already gathered. Everyone is in beautiful gowns and suits, including the staff. Everyone looks polished and professional.

For the first time, I realise this isn’t just a school project. This is a real exhibition.

My first one. Maybe that’s why I’m so nervous.

A hand settles on my waist. A magical touch because the nerves seep out of me before I can even turn to look at the owner of the hand.

Sev, of course, looks amazing. This should not be of any surprise to me at this point. His black tuxedo is perfectly tailored to his tall, slim body. The lapels of his jacket are embroidered with gold patterns. His shirt is unbuttoned as it always is—a little further than necessary.

I lift my eyes, and my mouth rounds in a silent gasp. His hair is combed back, his face is beautiful as ever. But two lines of vivid royal blue are painted below his eyes, sweeping from the inner corner of his eyes and up towards his temples.

He looks like a living work of art.

“I like the look you’ve gone for tonight,” I say finally, incapable of suppressing my smile.

He returns my smile. “Thank you. You inspired it.”

“Your eyes match my dress,” I point out. “Thank you, by the way.”

“You’re welcome. I’m glad you’re wearing it.” He points to his face. “I would look very silly if you weren’t.”

“You wouldn’t look silly. You would look beautiful, just as you do right now.”

He tilts his head. “Ah, careful. You can’t say things like that. I might think you’re catching feelings.”

“You’re the one matching your make-up to my dress.”

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