Libby scowled at her friend in the mirror. Nothing made her half so cross as having unending hairpins jabbed into her scalp. “Why are you going to so much trouble? I don’t care if I impress these people.”

Mabena flicked a gaze to her reflected one, then back to what she was doing. “You’ve worn nothing but a braid since you arrived. If you’re going to dress for dinner, we’re going to do it right. Besides.” She flashed a grin. “Maybe you’ll steal the attention of the one that chatty gossip wants.”

“Amusing.” As if she’d ever stolen the attention of any man. And as if she’d want to.

“Well, why not? Look at yourself, my lady.” Mabena pushed Libby’s shoulders into their proper posture, positioned her head just so, and nodded beside her in the mirror. “You’re as lovely as any other young lady when you try.”

A blatant lie. Other young ladies—like Edith, for example—didn’t need to try to be pretty. They just were. Even when their hair was in a braid and they were wearing cotton.

Or perhaps it was that they always tried. Which sounded exhausting. Libby blinked at her reflection, tempted to screw up her lips to ruin the image. She didn’t look like herself. Didn’t feel like herself in this beaded evening gown. The only thing she liked was that it was purple. And even that only made her smile because it reminded her of Mamm-wynn. “Are you finished yet?”

Mabena rolled her eyes and turned to root through the box of doodads and whatnot on the dressing table. It held all the dreaded hairpins and the ribbons and pearls Libby had begged her not to put into the coiffure, along with bracelets and rings and necklaces.

The digging and shifting went from lazy to panicked. “Where are your necklaces?”

Libby wrinkled her nose at her reflection, tempted to stick out her tongue at herself too. “How am I to know? You did the packing.” She sounded petulant. But it was the corset’s fault. Mabena hadn’t let her keep it tied as loosely as she usually did. Probably because the purple gown wouldn’t have fit otherwise. And she’d made her put on the ridiculously long satin gloves. She hated gloves, unless it was cold outside. They made it hard to write or sketch.

A knock came from the front door, bringing Libby to her feet. It would be Oliver, here to spend the evening poring over maps and history texts and every record of the legends surrounding Vice Admiral Sir John Mucknell, pirate extraordinaire. Sure enough, many of the books she and Mabena thought might be Beth’s touched on the pirate and had been taken, Oliver was certain, from the Tremayne library.