The Glass Ballerina Who Danced On Knives

Lies

I asked Alisa about the will. I half expected her to look at me like I'd lost my

marbles, but the second I said the word red, her expression shifted. She informed

me that a viewing of the Red Will could be arranged, but first I had to do

something for her.

That something ended up involving a brother-sister stylist team carting what appeared to be the entire inventory of Saks Fifth Avenue into my bedroom. The female stylist was tiny and said next to nothing.

The man was six foot six and kept up a steady stream of observations. "You

can't wear yellow, and I would encourage you to banish the words orange and cream

from your vocabulary, but most every other colour is an option."

The three of us were in my room now, along with Libby, thirteen racks of clothing, dozens

of trays of jewellery, and what appeared to be an entire salon set up in the bathroom.

"Brights, pastels, earth tones in moderation. You gravitate toward

solids?"

I looked down at my current outfit: a grey T-shirt and my second-most-

comfortable pair of jeans. "I like simple."

"Simple is a lie," the woman murmured. "But a beautiful one sometimes."

Beside me, Libby snorted and bit back a grin. I glared at her. "You're

enjoying this, aren't you?" I asked darkly. Then I took in the outfit she was

wearing. The dress was black, which was Libby enough, but the style would

have fit right in at a country club.

I'd told Alisa not to pressure her. "You don't have to change how you—" I started to say, but Libby cut me off.

"They bribed me. With boots." She gestured toward the back wall, which was

lined with boots, all of them leather, in shades of purple, black, and blue. Ankle-

length, calf-length, even one pair of thigh-highs.

"Also," Libby added serenely, "creepy lockets." If a piece of jewellery looked

like it might be haunted, Libby was there.

"You let them make you over in exchange for fifteen pairs of boots and some

creepy lockets?" I said, feeling mildly betrayed.

"And some incredibly soft leather pants," Libby added. "Totally worth it. I'm

still me, just... fancy." Her hair was still blue. Her nail polish was still black.

And she wasn't the one the style team was focused on now.

"We should start with the hair," the male stylist declared beside me, eyeing

my offending tresses. "Don't you think?" he asked his sister.

There was no reply as the woman disappeared behind one of the racks. I

could hear her thumbing through another, rearranging the order of the clothing.

"Thick. Not quite wavy, not quite straight. You could go either way."

This giant man looked and sounded like he should be playing tight end, not advising