But I chose not to wear any of it. I poured lavender-steeped water into my basin and washed my face and arms. And then I went to my wardrobe and found the dress I wanted. A long-sleeved gown made of black velvet. I had only worn it once before, to a winter solstice party that my father didn’t attend, and the looks I had drawn made me so self-conscious that I decided I wouldn’t wear it again.

But this night seemed to call for it.

I undressed, remembered I still had tiny trinkets in my pockets, and returned them to their proper size. I drew the black dress on, pulling the golden ribbon at the bodice tight.

I brushed my hair but left it down, and I fastened my leather weapon belt to my waist. Two small daggers gleamed at my hips as I walked back to Papa’s room. The belt had been his gift to me on my fifteenth birthday two years ago, when he had at last allowed me to join him in fighting on the new moons. In my mind, it marked my coming of age.

He was sitting in his chair this time, dressed in his finest and out of breath from the effort. This was truly going to be a disastrous night, I thought, and watched him frown at my choice of clothes.

“Where did that come from?” he asked.

“It’s one of Mama’s old dresses,” I said. “She sent it to me last year.”

His frown deepened, but then he coughed, and it seemed he forgot about the gown. I poured him a cup of water, which he drained, and then he stood and motioned for me to come closer.

“How are your stores, Clem?”

I knew he was asking about my reserved magic, the amount I had available to burn. Magicians could fuel their spells in one of three ways: body, mind, or heart. Depending on what energy force the magicians preferred to cast with, we needed things like food, drink, sleep, good company, books, art, music, and solitude to refill, or risked burning ourselves into oblivion.

I often cast with my mind and my body, and while the dream divination had drained a portion of my reserves, I measured myself and found that I still had plenty to give.

“My stores are good.”

“Then I need you to glamour me.”

“Glamour you? This fever must truly be making you senseless.”

“Yes, just a little. To hide that I’m ill.”

He waited for me to do something. I merely gaped up at him.

“Papa . . . I don’t think—”

“This is a good idea,” he said, reading my mind. “Please, daughter. This night is important, and I must make an appearance with the arrival of these . . . visitors.”

“But I don’t think you should fight tonight,” I said. “You’re far too sick for it.”

“We’ll see. Perhaps I’ll feel better after dinner.”