Late Eclipses by Seanan McGuire Page A

discounting the fact that I wasn’t the one raising it. May was pulling less than a quarter of the power I’d need for an illusion. Her magic rose to join mine, adding ashes and cotton candy to the mingled scents of copper, fresh-cut grass, and blood.
    And then the Queen’s magic snapped into place around us, filling my mouth with the taste of rowan and damp sand. I stared at May as she let go of me, holding up the dress like a fresh canvas in a children’s art class.
    “The spell’s fresh enough to argue with,” she said. “Now tell it what to be.”
    I stared for a moment more before reaching out with my still-bleeding hand, grabbing for the Queen’s spell the way I’d grab for mists or shadows when shaping an illusion. I hit a brief resistance, like the air was pushing back. Then my fingers caught, my magic surging to obscure everything else, and I understood what to do. The Queen taught my clothes to become a gown. I couldn’t break her spell—not even blood gives me that kind of power—but as long as I wasn’t trying to break anything, I could change the definition of “gown.”
    Visualization is important when you’re assembling an illusion, and this was close enough that the same principles applied. I fixed the image of a simpler, clean dress in my mind and muttered, “Cinderella dressed in yellow went upstairs to kiss a fellow. Made a mistake, kissed a snake, how many doctors did it take?”
    The magic pulled tight before bursting, leaving me with the gritty feeling of sand coating my tongue. My head didn’t hurt. May’s magic had fueled the spell, not mine; my magic only directed it. May offered me the dress.
    “Done,” she said.
    “I didn’t know you could do that,” I said faintly, and took it.
    The Queen designed a gown too fragile for heavy use and too impractical for anyone expecting to do something more strenuous than a waltz. It wasn’t that gown anymore. The fabric was still the color of dried blood, but it was velvet now, not silk, and the material was slashed to reveal a dark rose under-skirt. The slashes were designed to look decorative, while allowing me to both conceal and draw my knives.
    “Well, I can. Now go get ready.”
    I slung the dress over one arm before sheathing my knife and taking the belt off the rack. “Seriously, do you want to tell me how we did that?”
    “Radical transformations stay malleable for a day or so; her spell was fresh enough to transmute. And you bled on it for me.” She shrugged. “I’m your Fetch. I know when things are possible. Just go with it.”
    I eyed her, trying to figure out what she wasn’t telling me. She smiled guilelessly. I finally sighed. “Be right back.”
    “I’ll be waiting.”
    I managed to resist the urge to slam the bedroom door, but only because it would have bothered the cats.
    Getting into the transmuted gown was a hell of a lot easier than getting out of it had been. Most of the hooks and ties were gone, replaced by buttons; my knife belt went over the interior skirt, the slight bulge it made hidden by the gold brocade band that rode easy on my hips. Maybe it’s tacky to go to a formal party armed, but these days, I try not to go anywhere without a way to defend myself. Sylvester would understand. He always did.
    I raked a brush through my hair, scowling at my reflection. It scowled obligingly back. One good thing about having hair with no real body: if I brush it out and clip it back, it stays clipped. “The things I do for Faerie, I swear,” I muttered, before dropping the brush and calling it good.
    Spike jumped onto the couch when I came back into the living room, rattling its thorns encouragingly in my direction. It chirped happily as I walked over and started stroking it. There’s an art to petting a rose goblin without injuring yourself. They’re basically animate, vaguely cat-shaped rosebushes, and you have to make sure not to move against the grain of the thorns.
    “Let’s go!” May gestured at the