They were blue. Probably the exact same denim blue as my dress—which might have seemed like an incredible coincidence, except that Mrs. Klutz had damn near a billion shoes, so statistically speaking, it made sense. The meat of the shoe was a thick, lacy design, like the pattern of butterfly wings, slowly engulfing the foot. The heel, itself, was daunting—long, powerful, and deadly, jutting downward like the Sword of Damocles.

I put them on.

I felt long, powerful, and deadly. I also felt a bit like Cinderella. Like, if Cinderella had magical powers, conquered Disneytopia, and ruled with an iron fist as the Mistress of All Evil.

I spent the next half hour practicing walking in them—back and forth, back and forth—in the Klutzes’ master bedroom until I wasn’t a complete idiot in them. I only stopped when I heard Imogen calling.

“Wynonna! Wynonna, where are you?”

I exited the master bedroom, smooth and calculated, as Mistresses of All Evil should. Our paths met in the hallway.

“Ooh, nice kicks,” said Imogen.

I was too busy plunging down the seemingly infinite abyss where people fall when they fall in love.

Imogen was wearing a long white floral-patterned summer dress that tied around the neck and draped down her like a flowery waterfall, all the way to her ankles. Taking her height into consideration, it was a very long dress. Her hair was straightened into elegant sandy curtains, her makeup was subtle and stunning, and her perfume was disorienting in the best way possible.

“Wow,” I finally managed to say. “You look…”

Brilliant. Gorgeous. Sensational. Ravishing. Devastating.

“… good,” I said.

No amount of makeup could hide the fact that she was blushing. Hard-core.

“Semiformal my ass,” I said, when I could finally do words. “You look like Cate Blanchett.”

Imogen wrung her hands bashfully. “Thanks, Wynonna.”

The plan was to pick up Wynezra and Holden at Holden’s house. We arrived at the Durden residence at exactly seven p.m., just as Imogen had foretold. The “boys” answered the door together, which was kind of cute, if not a little weird.

Wynezra and Holden didn’t clean up too bad themselves. Wynezra was wearing a dark blazer, sleeves rolled halfway up the forearms, over a plain white V-neck, and probably the nicest pair of jeans I owned. My out-of-control mop of hair was even combed into something vaguely Jonas Brothers. Holden had a fresh haircut, was wearing a checkered dress shirt tucked into a pair of formfitting khakis, and smelled like way too much cologne, but at least he was trying. It was probably the nicest either of us had ever looked, which was kind of sad.

Wynezra definitely noticed when it came to Holden. She was incredibly stiff and kept stealing glances at him.

Holden, meanwhile, was too busy noticing me to notice.