macarons over her eyes. Vika groaned. “Not that. You look like a murky-eyed frog.” “Then what will we wear?” She lowered the macarons. “Can you conjure costumes for us?” “I could. . . .” Which was true. But Vika had never been any good at tailoring clothes. It was part of the reason why her dresses were not up to the standard of the gowns worn by Saint Petersburg girls. Perhaps it was because cloth was not a living thing, which made it more difficult for her to manipulate. Or perhaps it was because she had never much cared what she wore. She was very much like Sergei in that way. But no matter
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