Cordelia wondered dryly if Risa was referring to the fact that the dress was low-cut enough to reveal the tops of her breasts: swelling crescents above the dark green silk. She supposed it was true that a married woman could wear clothes that were far more daring than a single girl’s. Every seam in her dress had been designed to emphasize her curves; every inset panel of lace offered a trompe l’oeil hint of her bare skin beneath. The effect, as Anna had explained to her when she chose the material, lay in the eye of the beholder: even the most ardent gossip could not fault its cut, but an admirer could easily imagine what lay underneath.

But will James imagine it? said a small voice in the back of her mind. Will he notice the dress? Compliment it?

She didn’t know: it had been two weeks since her wedding to James and he was sometimes entirely opaque. Still, they had been two weeks so happy they had surprised her. Maybe this mad gamble would pay off. She would have this to look back on when she was old and gnarled like a tree trunk—a year of happiness married to a boy she adored. Some people never had so much as that.

“Maybe the dress is too much,” Cordelia said, tugging at the neckline.

“Negaran nabash.” Risa batted her hand out of the way, tsking. “Don’t worry. This is your first real night out before the whole Enclave as a married woman. Show them you are proud. Show them you will not be made to feel small. Show them you are a Jahanshah.” She made a shooing motion. “Now I shall go.” She winked. “You must not keep Alijenab James waiting.”

Risa slipped out, leaving Cordelia to stand there feeling rather foolish. James rarely came into her room; she sensed he wanted her to have her privacy. He knocked once now before coming in and closing the door behind him.

She tried not to stare. James was wearing a black tailcoat and white waistcoat. His father’s mad werewolf tailor had done another excellent job: James’s clothes fitted him perfectly, dark broadcloth shaping his shoulders and long legs, white linen shirt showing the lean strength of his chest and throat. His gaze fell on her, his body going utterly still. There was a dull flush of color along the tops of his cheekbones.

“Daisy,” he said. “You look—” He broke off, shaking his head, and fumbled something out of his pocket. It was a simple black velvet box. He held it out to her and she took it, quite surprised.

“Our two-week anniversary,” he said, in answer to her quizzical expression.

“But—I didn’t get you anything.” She took the box, the velvet nap soft against her fingers. “I didn’t know I was supposed to.”