Page 204 of Cherish

“Don’t worry,” Macy tells her with a wink. “I’ve got her from here.”

“I certainly hope so, because otherwise you’ll be in charge of running herd on the kitchen witches’ Wingo games for many months to come. And Bettina is truly a wicked, wicked witch.”

I burst out laughing, partly because of the joke and partly because I had no idea Imogen had it in her.

“Way to throw shade there, Imogen.”

“Please.” The witch pats her hair. “You aren’t the only ones who know how to have a good time.”

“Apparently not,” I tell her with a grin.

She giggles. She actually giggles. And then, very gingerly and with a scrunched-up nose, pats my shoulder. “Your dress is in the closet,” she stage-whispers like it’s the biggest secret ever. “It’s Vampire’s Wife.”

And then she slips out of the room in a swirl of crimson and gold ruffles.

“Oh. My. God.”

Macy throws herself back on the bed and starts laughing hysterically.

“Oh my God! Who was that?” I stare at the closed door. “Are formal events what she uses to reach total and complete self-actualization?”

“That and about four shots.”

I whirl on Macy, horrified. “What did you do?”

“Me? Nothing. Viola, however, suggested she might like a drink to calm her nerves. How were we supposed to know she’d have such a taste for whipped-cream vodka?”

“Oh my God,” I repeat. I start to flop down on the bed next to her, then remember just what a sorry state I’m currently in and head toward the bathroom instead. “I’m going to take that shower, and then you can fill me in on all the deets.”

Fifteen minutes later, Macy is doing just that as Esperanza, Imogen’s personal glamour practitioner, “makes the most of what I’ve got.” Which, surprisingly, is quite a lot under her expert touch, even if there’s no real magic involved. Sure, the crushed-berry lip color is a little much for me, but I’m not about to fight her. Not when she holds the fate of my very curly hair in her hands.

On the plus side, it matches the dress in the closet perfectly.

After Esperanza finishes twisting my hair into the most perfect chignon it has ever been in—it only takes about an hour—she gives me a hug and wishes me luck before slipping out of the room.

“Holy shit,” Macy says as she walks in a circle around me.

“It’s not that big of a deal,” I tell her.

“Holy shit,” she says again.

“It’s just the dress and the jewelry and—”

I break off as Macy takes hold of my shoulders and spins me around until I’m looking in the full-length mirror next to the dressing table. And can I just say: “Holy shit.”

“That’s what I’ve been telling you,” she agrees.

I stare at the mirror, and for a second I really can’t believe it’s me.

Not because of the makeup and false lashes and fancy hairstyle.

Not because of the floor-length formal dress, though it is gorgeous, with its spaghetti straps, ivory tulle, and elaborate overlay of flowers and vines in shades of raspberry, periwinkle, gold, and the softest pinks and greens.

Not even because of the diamonds dripping from my ears and set throughout the platinum crown sitting on my head.

No, it’s because for the first time since this whole journey began, I look like a queen. And maybe, just maybe, I’m beginning to feel like one, too.

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