“We don’t have any openings today, sweetheart,” she said, and I blinked at her familiarity. “But let me talk to Renfold. He’ll stay late for you. Your mother’s straightening charms have saved our reputation too many times.”

“My mother’s hair straighteners?” I managed, grabbing her wrist and extraditing my hand from hers. I was going to have to talk to my mother. This was so not-good. Just how long had she been making bootleg charms?

The woman, Sylvia, according to a name tag outlined in green pearls, smiled and winked at me as if we were grand friends. “You don’t think you’re the only person who has difficult-to-charm hair?” she said, then reached to touch my hair fondly as if it were a thing of beauty, not a constant bother. “I will never understand why no one is satisfied with what nature gives them. I think it’s wonderful that you appreciate yours.”

“Appreciate” wasn’t the right word, but I didn’t want to stand here and discuss hair. “Uh, I need to speak to Trent. He’s still here, right?”

The woman’s surprise that I was on a first-name basis with the eminently eligible bachelor flashed across her face. She glanced at Quen, who nodded, and with a soft “This way, please,” she led us through the store.

I felt better now that we were moving, even if the staff was whispering as Sylvia led us along a wandering path through racks of scrumptious clothing. The store smelled wonderfully of expensive fabrics and exotic perfumes, plus the snap of ozone that said ley line charms were made and invoked here. Other Earthlings was an all-encompassing costumer, supplying the clothes, prosthetics as needed, and charms to make anyone into anyone else. They weren’t online, and the only way you could get their products was to make an appointment. I couldn’t help but wonder what Trent was going for, costumewise.

Quen was behind me again, and Sylvia led us past a small back counter and to a short hall with four doors. They were set back like the entries to high-class hotel rooms, and from behind the last, I could hear Trent’s voice.

The soft murmur of it went right to my middle and twisted something. God, he had a beautiful voice: low, resonant, and rich with unexplored undertones—like shadowed moss in the sun-dappled woods. I was certain his voice contributed to how well he did in the city elections—if the generous donations to underprivileged children and hospitals weren’t enough.