Part 29 (1/2)

Tears burn my eyes and I find myself hugging her tight before she pulls away. ”We'll see you soon.”

”You'd better,” Vane's dad says before he wraps his arms around us both. ”Try not to destroy the house.”

Vane forces a laugh. ”Dang, there goes all my plans.”

”Oh, I almost forgot,” his mom says, lifting a tattered shred of black fabric from the top of her suitcase. ”I'm so sorry. I guess your clothes can't go in the was.h.i.+ng machine. . . .”

It takes me a second to realize the sc.r.a.p she's holding is what's left of my uniform, and another after that to realize my mistake. I'd forgotten that groundlings use machines for their was.h.i.+ng instead of water and air. Our porous fabric must not be able to hold up.

”It's fine,” I tell her, even though I have no idea what I'll wear now. My shelter had nowhere to hide possessions, so I only had the one uniform. ”I'll figure something out. Maybe the Gales have an extra-”

”We've been keeping all the supplies at the Dustlands Base,” Os interrupts. ”It's an hour away from here.”

”I still have your jacket,” Vane offers, pointing to a crushed pile of black on the floor next to his bed. ”But that's probably not going to help much.”

”I'm sure I can make your mother's pants work if I have a belt.”

Solana lets out a slow, heavy sigh. ”Or, I have a few extra dresses.”

She doesn't actually offer them, but Vane still tells her, ”That would be awesome!” and before I can argue, she nods like it's settled.

Vane's parents rush through a teary goodbye-making Vane promise he'll remember to text them this time. Then the house is quiet and Vane watches from his window as they drive away.

The tense line of his shoulders makes me want to hug him. But Solana turns to me. ”My stuff 's in the living room.”

She looks about as thrilled with this arrangement as I am, which somehow makes it easier to follow her down the hall. Until she shows me my choices.

One is nothing more than a tube of s.h.i.+ny teal-and not nearly enough of that. Another is sheer peach and dips almost as low in the front as it does in the back. And the third is bright red.

I'm positive it would take the fabric from all three to actually cover me-especially considering I'm at least two inches taller than her. But clearly the point of these dresses is to be seen.

And to catch the eye of a certain Westerly king.

The thought has me reaching for the red one, though I tell myself it's mostly because it looks longer than the others.

I realize on my way to the bathroom that I'd forgotten about my black s.h.i.+fting dress, tucked away in the eave of my old shelter. I want to believe that I don't switch to that because I don't want to waste any time-and not because I want Vane to see me in something new. But if I'm being honest, the thought did cross my mind.

Apparently I am turning into one of ”those girls.”

I'm even more disgusted with myself when I slip the silky red fabric over my head and glance in the mirror. The V of the neckline dips low enough to make me blush, and the thin straps tie around my neck, leaving my shoulders-and most of my back-bare. The sides at least come up high enough to cover my bandage, and the skirt is longer than the other dress options-but only in the back. In the front it cuts much higher, and the flowy design has me wondering what I'm supposed to do if I catch an updraft.

But the truly horrifying part is that I can't help imagining Vane's reaction when he sees me. I want to believe he'll be pleased-but what if he isn't?

What if he thinks I look as ridiculous as I feel?

I'm this close to raiding his mom's closet-she's only a few sizes bigger than me, surely there's something I can make work-when I step under the vent in the ceiling. The air sinks effortlessly through the thin material, cooling my skin and giving me a boost of strength.

Sylph fabrics breathe better than groundling ones-and I'm going to need all the energy I can get. Embarra.s.sing as it is, this dress is my best option.

I start to braid my hair, but that leaves far too much skin on display, so I smooth the strands as best as I can and force myself to walk away from the mirror.

Solana's waiting for me outside the bathroom, and her frustrated sigh makes my lips curl into a smile.

I must look better than I think.

It's an incredibly foolish thought to have when preparing for a fight, but Solana seems to bring out the foolishness in me. Maybe because she's changed into the even tinier flesh-toned dress, which almost makes her look naked.

”You have an interesting battle wardrobe,” I tell her, pulling at the hem of my skirt.

”Not that I need to explain myself, considering I just bailed you out, but it's because of my gift.”

”Your gift?”

”Yeah. I'm a windcatcher. So I need to keep my skin exposed to the air so I can absorb as many drafts as possible.”

That explains what Os meant earlier-and why she looked so frustrated at the way he belittled her. Those who can windcatch are especially rare, and the gift requires continual sacrifice in order to maintain.

We both know that's not the only reason for her dresses, though. But since we seem to have reached a truce, I bite my tongue as I follow her back to Vane's bedroom.

I can hear some sort of argument going on, but my heart is pounding too loud for me to pick out the words. I keep my eyes glued to the floor as I slink through the doorway, cringing when the room falls silent.

Someone finally coughs and I brave a quick glance at Vane.

I'm sure my face is turning as red as my dress, but I can't help smiling at the intensity of his stare.

”Okay, so, new plan,” Gus says after a second. ”Let's just let the girls fly out there dressed like that and give them all heart attacks.”

Os sighs. ”We're facing an army of Living Storms. Pretty girls are hardly going to be an effective distraction.”

Gus rolls his eyes. ”I was joking.”

”Now is not the time for jokes.” Os holds his hands toward the window. ”The winds are starting to flee, and there's only one reason they would leave. And there's only one thing we can do to give ourselves a fighting chance.” He turns back to Vane. ”Are you finally ready to teach us Westerly?”

”How do you know it's going to help?” I ask, feeling extra exposed as Os's eyes narrow at me.

”Are you saying that you don't think the power of four is useful?”

”No, but”-my mind flashes back to my disastrous escape attempt from Aston's cave-”how do you know the Westerlies' aversion to violence won't be triggered with the breakthrough?”

”The same way I didn't become steady and sluggish when I learned Southerly,” Os snaps back. ”That's exactly why it's so crucial that Vane share his language. We'll harness his power in ways he'll never be able to.”

I open my mouth to argue but stop myself just in time. He doesn't know I'm part Westerly now.

And maybe he's right. I learned the language through a bond. Maybe breakthroughs are different.

But the thought of Westerly words being whispered by the same man who shattered enough drafts to build a Maelstrom makes me physically ill.

I can see the uncertainty in Vane's eyes, and I want to grab him and run far away before he can say another word-or at least beg him not to share his secrets.

I stop myself from doing either.