Aurora Rising (The Aurora Cycle #1)(71)

“They’re really looking at the invites carefully,” I murmur, and at my side, Ty tilts his head in closer to mine to get a look.

“Confidence,” he murmurs. “Slow breaths. Play it like you belong here.”

My gut does a slow flip. I don’t belong. Not just here, but anywhere in the galaxy. I was supposed to live two centuries ago. The tiredness and the fear feel as though they’re stretching out the bonds that held me close to my family until they’re dangerously thin, ready to snap and leave me utterly alone.

I’m not sure what will happen then.

Dariel swore the invitations were as good as real—which isn’t the same thing as real—but Fin seemed to trust him. Our Betraskan squad mate looked a little sick at asking the favor, and I could tell that somewhere in the complex web of family obligations, he’d just racked up another big one. He’s been talking a little extra, a little more obnoxiously, ever since. Covering his nerves, I think.

I’m slowly learning them, these six young soldiers who hold my life in their hands. Though even if I’d met them five minutes ago, I couldn’t miss Cat’s simmering frustration. I’m standing arm in arm with Ty, and she’s behind us, arm in arm with Scarlett, and I can feel her gaze burning two holes right between my shoulder blades. My skin gives an uncomfortable twitch.

The outfit that’s bothering her so much is the most incredible tailored jumpsuit I’ve ever seen. It’s the same one I saw in my vision of her—navy blue, strapless and, despite her protests, structured enough to keep everything where it belongs. She’s paired it—or rather, Scarlett’s paired it—with silver boots that look like someone’s smashed a mirror to a million pieces, then glued it onto them in a perfect mosaic, and the mask covering her eyes is made of the same stuff.

She wears a thick, gleaming gold belt and no other jewelry—her tattoos are gorgeous, and they do the work for her, the jumpsuit’s back cut low enough to show off the spectacular hawk inked across her back and shoulder blades, matching the phoenix across her throat. Skin pale, eyes dark, and hair darker, she looks fearsome. The sort of person I want on my side, if only I could be sure she was.

She keeps looking at me in a way that makes me wonder.

Scarlett’s dress is a perfect complement to her Ace’s outfit, a deep turquoise gown that hits the floor—again, the exact same one I saw in my waking dream, though she brought it home without me ever describing it to her. A shiver went straight down my spine when I saw it.

How did she know which one to buy?

The strapless bodice of Scarlett’s gown (down which Fin and Dariel just had the view of a lifetime, I’m pretty sure) picks up the shattered mirror motif from Cat’s boots with a thousand silver beads, which scatter over her dark skirts like the first stars in the night sky. About three hundred buttons travel from her mid-back to the floor. It took Zila and I—the pair with the smallest fingers—half an hour to get them all closed. Her mask sets off her big blue eyes with more flecks of silver.

Both of them look so fit, so fierce, now that they’re not hidden under their Aurora Academy jumpsuits. I know I should be nervous, but I can’t help but feel a little fiercer beside them.

My own dress is the cutest thing I’ve ever worn. It’s exactly what I would have chosen for my prom, if I’d ever had one.

I wonder what Callie wore to hers.

The fitted bodice of my dress is red-and-gold embroidered silk swirling in intricate designs. It has perfect capped sleeves and an upright collar hooked closed at my neck. The top half is just like my qipao at home, but the knee-length skirts are a thousand flouncing layers of red tulle. I wanted to twirl like a freaking ballerina when I put this thing on, but Scarlett was looking at me super-intently.

“I wasn’t sure if the silk was right,” she said.

I looked down, smoothing it with one hand. “It’s perfect.”

But her gaze had lingered, even though it was a long moment before she spoke again, uncharacteristically hesitant. “You said your father— I mean, I know it’s not actually Chinese, but …”

And that was when I realized she’d tried to get me something that would remind me of home. And I found I’d lost my breath, as well as my words.

“It’s …” I took a second swing at it. “It really is perfect, Scarlett, thank you. I think he’d have loved it. Keeping our culture alive was important to him.”

It sounded like someone else speaking, talking about him in the past tense. I could hear how careful my voice was, a fraction too cheerful, overshooting the mark by just enough to show her how hard I was trying.

Keeping our culture alive in our family was important to him. When I was growing up, the way to put off bedtime just a little longer was always to ask for another traditional story from the big, old-fashioned book on the shelf. After he left mom behind, I was so angry at him I’d have said story-time routine was just another example of something mattering more to him than his family. He wouldn’t spend extra time together for me, but he would for the all-important traditions.

But maybe he just wanted an excuse to spend a little more time together as well.

Scarlett busied herself neatening my hair and carefully blacking out the white streak, gluing the micro-cam disguised as a beauty spot in place on my cheek. It was an intimate moment, but the touch didn’t feel like an imposition. It felt like a comfort. “Ty and I, we understand,” she said quietly. “We know what it’s like to lose a parent. Cat, too, and Zila. If you need to talk about it, I’m your girl.”