Clearing her throat, Catrina brushed her hands down her skirts, rearranging them so the pleats lay perfectly.

Jordan stood. “One day someone will pick up whatever you hurl and throw it back at you,” she warned, briefly crouching to snatch up the discarded brush. She set it down on the tabletop and tugged the last strands of hair free from the brush’s bristles, pressing the hair into the hole atop the small sterling box on her vanity.

“If someone dared,” Catrina said with a huff, “then they would glimpse the true fire of my nature.”

Jordan returned the brush to the silver tray holding her tortoiseshell comb and sat again, turning on the bench to better examine her face in the newest of two freestanding mirrors.

Catrina had once remarked that a beautiful lady could never have too many mirrors.

So Jordan had asked for a second mirror.

And a third.

Catrina had quickly pointed out she herself had seven—imported from Germany, no less!—arranged about her room so she might examine herself from every viewable angle before going out. Such things were necessary when one was of Hollindale rank.

But Jordan need not worry about examining herself so fiercely, not when she had a friend like Catrina. “And where are your fine parents on the night of my seventeenth birthday?” Jordan asked. “Still abroad on diplomatic assignment?”

“Still, yet, and always,” Catrina said. “I would miss them sorely except most days I barely even remember what they look like.”

“Is your uncle at least in attendance?”

“As much in attendance as a drunken letch can be…” Catrina stifled a sigh and picked a ribbon off the tray. “I should not complain. It is through their absence and generous allowance that I have the freedoms I do.” She twirled the ribbon between her thumb and forefinger. “You look lovely,” she said, tucking it into Jordan’s dark tresses so it coiled down by the top of her ear and bounced. “Oh. Oh dear.”

“What is it?” Jordan bent closer to the mirror.

Catrina frowned at her reflection, pondering. “Nothing really…”

Jordan’s eyes widened as she viewed herself as critically as she could. Her nose was too broad, but that hadn’t changed. Her eyes were set slightly wider apart than perfection dictated, but that, too, was nothing new. She ticked off her list of flaws: eyelashes too short, lips too thin and long and falling far too readily into an easy smile, ears a bit too obvious, freckles marring the bridge of her nose because she was occasionally slow to put on a bonnet or hat … But these were her standard imperfections. “I do not see it—what is the problem?”

“Never fear, I will remedy the offense,” Catrina volunteered. She tugged out the single drawer in the vanity and found a tool she had demanded Jordan could not be without.

Tweezers.

Her hand darting out serpent-quick, she yanked a single hair from Jordan’s eyebrow and stood victorious while her friend hissed in surprise.

“Ouch! You are a fiend of the highest order,” Jordan declared.

“But you are far more lovely for my cruelty. Nearly perfect.”

“I will never be perfect,” Jordan mumbled.

“Perfection, like beauty, must be worked at in order to be obtained. You do not work as hard as you should. Hands?”

Catrina’s inspection of Jordan continued. Her nails needed filing and however did she manage to get dirt up beneath them? Her face required a bit of powder to smooth out her troublesome complexion, but she also required a bit of Lady Salvia’s Wonder Salve to relax a faint line appearing in her brow. After much primping and a hefty dose of criticism Jordan was far closer to retiring for the evening than greeting guests. But as harsh as Catrina’s attentions might sometimes be, they were still attentions and invaluable in that way at least.

Even a fine house on the Hill could be lonely if no one bothered paying attention to you. And Jordan’s father was a very important member of the Council, only having time to pay attention to politics. And Jordan’s mother only paid attention to Jordan’s father.

So Jordan was fortunate to have Catrina.

“Now, wherever is the dress I sent you?” Catrina asked. “I was hoping you liked it enough—”

“Oh—it’s quite beautiful—”

“But not lovely enough to wear tonight? For such a special occasion?”

“No—that’s not it. It’s just…” She glanced down at her hands. “It’s too much, Catrina. It is far too grand a gift to accept.”

“Too grand a gift to accept? From one friend to another?” Catrina shook her head, her pinned-up curls a mass of trembling gold corkscrews. “How long have we been friends, Jordan?”

“Years.”

“I seem to recall it being twelve years. And who introduced you to Rowen?”

“Well, you did…”

“And you two have—well, done whatever it is you call this relationship of yours for how many years?”

“Three.”

“So I call that equivalent to fifteen years. There is almost no gift too grand for a friend of fifteen years.” She tipped her chin up imperiously and gave a sniff of disappointment.

“Well, I suppose…”

“You will wear it, then?”

“Yes. Yes, of course.”

“Excellent. I had it made special for you by Modiste du Monde.”

“That shop on Second Street by Elfreth’s Alley, run by that odd little seamstress?”

“Odd and a bit churlish,” Catrina admitted, “but a very talented mantua maker. Where is the box, Jordan? It is still in the box, is it not?”

Jordan blushed.

“Precisely as I feared. How well I know you. Where is it?”

Jordan threw her hands into the air. “However should I know? It is wherever servants put such things.”

“You do not know where your things are kept?”

“Must I? Servants dress and undress me, bathe me and brush my hair. It is a wonder I know anything, they do so much for me.”

“I see.” Catrina reached out and yanked one of Jordan’s curls so she yelped. “You are spoiled as badly as month-old milk!”

In a sudden show of spark, Jordan said, “And yet there are several young men interested in having a taste of me.”

“Oh! You naughty little beast!” Catrina laughed. “Well, I expect the dress to be in here…” She strode to the large armoire and pulled open its two doors. Its interior sported a row of pegs on which hung an assortment of skirts, blouses, and dresses that would not do well in the drawers along its bottom. On the armoire’s floor was a paper box. Catrina scooped it up.

“Well, at least the string is off it,” she muttered, turning to face Jordan again. In three very unladylike strides she was before her best friend removing the box’s lid to reveal the delicate dress sparkling within. With a quick move she dropped the box and, grabbing the dress by its shoulders, pulled it free of the tissue paper and gave it a good shake. “It is amazing, is it not?”

“It is,” Jordan agreed. “Quite truly.”

“Well then. But perhaps…”

“Perhaps what?” Jordan asked, a hesitant finger tracing the thick flounce of lace trimming each of the sleeves’ wrists. “Do you now think me not deserving of this dress and all the attentions it might bring me?” Jordan stood and Catrina laid the new dress across the bench and set about undoing the back of the dress Jordan already wore. Each hook was separated from each matching eye as her corset was revealed to the warm evening air inch after inch. When it was opened to her hips Jordan tugged on the shoulders and sleeves, loosening the dress’s bodice so she could peel free of it.

The gown puddled at her feet, gossamer and silk taffeta, ruffles and ribbons, and Jordan carefully stepped out of it to stand before Catrina in only her petticoats, stays, stockings, shoes, and chemise.

The dress at her feet was wonderful, but it was most definitely last year’s style, whereas Catrina’s gift was as fresh as fashion got in the New World.

The bell in the main square’s bell tower sounded, echoing out one deep and penetrating peal, and Catrina rested a steadying hand on the dressing table, confessing, “I lost track of time.”

“It seems a bit inconsistent recently,” Jordan agreed, nodding.

The lanterns in Jordan’s bedchamber dimmed, fading to pinpricks of white, and the girls closed their eyes against the Pulse’s coming flare. The sky stretching beyond Jordan’s balcony window splintered as a hundred fingers of lightning stabbed along the Spokes from the central Hub, screeching across the lower atmosphere to find reaching metal rods that topped each ranking family’s slate roof.

Houses hummed, power drumming through narrow wires and refreshing the crystals in lanterns, wall sconces, and chandeliers until there sounded an audible sizzle and Jordan’s room blossomed stark white as the Pulse recharged all the lights in the connected city.

The Pulse retreated, the glare ebbing back to its normal cheerful warmth, recharged for another few hours.

“Why do you think that is?” Jordan asked, her voice soft.

“What? The Pulse?”

“No … the inconsistency. If the Pulse is powered by the Weather Witch at the Hub, why…?”

“Perhaps that Witch is dying,” Catrina said, picking up the new dress.

Jordan blinked. “Perhaps…”

Matter-of-factly, Catrina said, “They do that, you know. Die.”

Jordan blanched. “You say it so coolly. As if their lives mean little.”

Catrina pulled back, examining her friend’s face carefully. “You’re Fifth of the Nine. Witches are unranked.”

“Yes, but they…”

“… are Weather Witches. They provide a service. They make sure goods are delivered. My shoes? Brought on an airship Conducted by a Weather Witch. Your perfume? The same. They are trained up Made, and taken care of. They live their lives so we may live ours the way we deserve. Because, you know, Jordan, we always get what it is that we deserve.”