“I’m here to help you get ready, sweetie, and that means doing both.” She moved to hug me, ignoring the fact that I was still dripping. Then she jabbed a finger at my desk chair, which had been dragged in front of the bedroom mirror. “You, sit. Your hair and I need to have a long overdue chat.”

“Is this going to hurt?” Having three daughters has helped Stacy keep up with modern fashions, and she has enough of a grasp of pureblood trends to know what is and isn’t acceptable. She was the best possible person to help me get ready. This did nothing to change my utter hatred of having my hair done.

“Probably.” Stacy pushed me into the chair, positioning herself behind me. “You need to take better care of your hair,” she said, plucking the towel from around my neck and beginning to dry my hair, one section at a time.

“Why? I’ve got you to do it for me.”

“I’m serious. You’re only in your fifties. What’re you going to do when you’re two hundred? Wear a wig?”

“It’s a thought,” I said, closing my eyes. “Think I could get one styled like yours?”

Stacy scoffed and kept drying. Both of us knew I was only half-kidding. Stacy and I are both brunettes, but her hair is an elegant chestnut, while mine is a faded ash-brown shot through with gold highlights. Her hair is thick and well-behaved; mine is stick-straight and fine enough to make anything more complex than a ponytail hard. Really, Stacy’s hair goes with the rest of her, because she can stop traffic with a smile. I can stop traffic, too. I just tend to do it by crashing my car into something.

“So they’re inviting you to diplomatic events now?” Stacy dropped the towel and started unsnarling my sodden hair with something that felt like a pick. I kept my eyes closed. “I wondered when they’d start showing sense.”

“I’m sure they’re just inviting me to even out the number of place settings.”

“Still, maybe you’ll add a touch of sanity to the proceedings.”

“Ha, ha,” I deadpanned.

Stacy laughed—a much more genuine sound. “Did I tell you that Anthony’s having his first slumber party next week?”

“No,” I said, relaxing and tilting my head back. “Tell me all about it.”

I let her words wash over me, concentrating on them rather than on the light, constant tugging at my hair. It was soothing, almost like the slumber parties we used to have, back when we were both teenagers, and the world was a much simpler place.

“I’m going to let this dry a little while I do your makeup,” she said, pulling her hands away. I heard jars clink as she got her makeup kit, and had to suppress the urge to bolt. “Have you seen the dress you’ll be wearing?”

“I was thinking I’d skip it. The Queen wants to see my new sweatshirt, right?” Stacy pinched me. I yelped. “Quit it! No, I haven’t seen it. Have you?”

“Yes. I think you’ll like it.” The jars rattled again before she started rubbing something on my eyelids. “I’m doing a simple, classic, smoky eye. Try not to smear it too much, okay? ‘Raccoon’ isn’t a good look for anybody.”

“I’ll try,” I said, resisting the urge to peek. That way lies madness, and getting a mascara wand in the eye.

Stacy worked for almost twenty minutes before she made a faint sound of approval. “Almost done,” she said, dusting her brush across my nose and forehead.

“And thank Titania for that,” I said fervently, as she went back to working on my hair.

“You should be thanking Titania,” said Stacy, spraying something that smelled like roses and cotton flowers into the air above my head. “If it weren’t for her, we’d be doing this the mortal way, and we’d be here for at least another hour.”

“Oh, goody,” I muttered.

“Toby!” called May, from the living room. “Connor’s here!”

“He can’t have her yet!” Stacy called back. “We’re busy!”

“Got it!”

Stacy grabbed a hairpin, twisting a lock of my hair up and back before spraying more of the cotton flower mist on my head. “That does sort of beg the question—are you sure you should be taking Connor? I mean, one minute he’s breaking up with you because Selkies don’t date changelings—”

“That wasn’t his fault!” I protested.

“—the next, he’s married, and now he’s single and suddenly he’s all over you again? I don’t want to see you get hurt, Toby.”

“Stacy . . .”

“It just seems like a lot of things ‘weren’t his fault.’ ” She gave my hair a hard tug. I winced. “Hold still while I pin this.”

“Yes, boss,” I muttered.

Her fingers tugged and darted, grabbing loops of hair and pinning them in place. Finally, she patted my shoulder. “Okay. We’re done.”

“Yippee.” I stood, rolling my head to ease the stiffness in my neck. Then I took a good look at my reflection and stopped, blinking.

My makeup was subtle, simple, and somehow perfect, calling attention to my best features while playing down my worst ones. My hair was pinned in sleek curls, held back with carved ash pins. The curls moved naturally when I turned my head, but fell right back to their original positions, not a hair going out of place.

“It should hold as long as you don’t get in a fight.” Stacy appeared behind me in the mirror, smiling. “I assume you won’t get in a fight?”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Good. Do you like it?”

“I do.” I risked a nod. Again, my hair moved without becoming disheveled. That was nothing short of a miracle.

“Even better. It should stay intact until morning, as long as you don’t get it wet.”

“No fights and no skinny-dipping; check.” I turned to face her. “Now, since my fashion sense clearly isn’t acceptable, where’s that dress?”

“I thought you’d never ask.” Stacy’s smile turned impish. “May, we’re ready!”

The bedroom door swung open and May stepped inside, something black draped across her arms. “Hey, Toby. Wow, Stacy, you made her look like a real girl.” With a wink, she added, “That means I like your hair.”