The Lady's Guide to Petticoats and Piracy (Montague Siblings, #2)

by Mackenzi Lee

“It’s not a blue dress; it’s indigo,” she interrupts. “I chose this shade because it comes from Persicaria tinctoria, which is a flower like buckwheat that my mother collected while she was in Japan and brought back to Amsterdam for cultivation.” We stare at each other, the silence between us thick and fragile. Hearing that Latin classification from her lips is like a melody from childhood, half-remembered and suddenly played in full. Things I did not know had been askew fall back into place inside me. I miss you, I want to say.

The ruffles of yet another ridiculous dress whisper against the floor behind her. Not ridiculous, I correct myself. Softness can be an armor, even if it isn’t my armor.

“Even though I’m not who you want me to be anymore?” Of course she wasn’t the same as she had been when we last parted. She was a brighter, polished version, silver purified in the belly of a crucible until it glinted star-bright. Beside her, I feel stale and molding and unchanged, because if I had not believed entirely in who I was and what I wanted, I’d never survive. Johanna had let the world change her, let the winds polish her edges and the rain wear her smooth. She was the same person I had known. Had always known. Just a version that was more completely her. “There’s no one I’d rather you be,” I reply.

“You’re working for him.” “I’m not. He’s . . .” I consider saying conspiring to kidnap me, but am too tired to explain, so instead I finish, “not what I expected.”

“Felicity.” Both her hands are on my arm now, strangling the fabric of my dress. “Felicity.” “That’s me.” “We have discovered a new species.” Her face is like sunlight on a river, an already resplendent beam made brighter. I don’t want to be the cloud and remind her we haven’t, though. Sim and her family have sheltered these animals for decades. The scavengers on the beach, the people in Algiers—these dragons are not new to the world, only to our very small part of it.

“I’m not sure anyone is all good when you break us down to raw materials,” I say. “Max is all good.” “Max is a dog.”

Once we’re certain Platt has left us alone, I ask Johanna, “Do you have the map?” “Of course I do.” She pats her stomach. I may have been hit harder than I thought, for I stare blankly back at her. “You ate it?”

It’s like staring into the sun, so strong and bright she stands, and my heart swells with a sudden adoration for her, my proud and lovely friend.

But there is something about that single moment, treacle in a swig of vinegar, that swells my heart. Those small, precious things do not cease to exist in the shadow of something large and ominous, and hearing her say it makes me feel human again, a person beyond these last few weeks of my life.

My ferocity silences both Scipio and Aldajah. Behind their backs, Monty gives me a silent round of applause, which Percy grabs his hands to stop.

Monty manifests suddenly at my shoulder like an obnoxious ghost,

“Since when have you cared for glamour?” “I don’t. It’s you I’m worried for.” I pluck at the loose fabric around her thigh. “Wouldn’t want anything to happen to those fashionable trousers.” She tips her head at me, eyes narrowing. “You’re mocking me.” “I am,” I reply, as solemnly as I can muster. That oil slick of a smile spreads over her lips, and I want to touch a candle to it and watch her smolder, this dangerous, gorgeous, wildfire of a woman.

“Felicity Montague, if you saw me dressed for Eid in my blue-and-gold kaftan, you’d faint dead away.

As she raises the needle, I look between her and Jo-hanna. In the company of women like this—sharp-edged as raw diamonds but with soft hands and hearts, not strong in spite of anything but powerful because of everything—I feel invincible.