Some girls have butterflies in their stomachs before a first date. I had a full-blown stampede: hooves, horns, and one suspiciously judgmental peacock. Not that I let anyone see it, of course. Mara Stormrider, Mistress of Mischief, Fencer of Fates, and according to at least two wanted posters—"dangerously persuasive with a broom," did not get nervous. I got… creative.
Which is how I ended up hiding in the supply closet, wielding a bouquet of self-tying ribbons and arguing with an enchanted hairbrush that had opinions about volume.
"Stop squirming," it snapped, bristles trembling. "This style is called 'roguish bard meets tragic heroine.'"
"I was aiming for 'effortless charm,'" I muttered, giving the bouquet a suspicious sniff. The ribbons immediately knotted themselves into a heart shape. Traitors.
