The Turning Season by Sharon Shinn

always be wearing scooped necklines and bending over like crazy.”
    We’re way past needing any modesty between us, so I peel off the sweater and pull on the red shirt, and holy God, it clings to me like a second skin. “
Celeste.
I look like I’m naked. I can’t go out in public like this.”
    â€œWell, you can and you will. You look great. Here, now you need brighter lipstick. And you want something for your hair? I have feathers.”
    â€œI am
not
putting feathers in my hair!”
    Celeste, of course,
is
wearing feathers, long streaming blue ones, clipped just behind her ear, so they spill out like a bright surprise from the chaos of her unbound curls. Her only other accessory is a gold necklace hung with a jingling collection of gems and charms. She looks great, of course, but part of it is that ingrained confidence, the conviction that she can carry off any style. I don’t have that self-assurance. Whenever I try to dress up for a night out—fancy clothes and extra makeup—I always figure I look like a little girl trying to wear her big sister’s wardrobe.
    â€œWell, a sparkly little clip, then. Come on. We’re going to a bar, not a prison. You should look like you expect to have a good time.”
    In the end, of course, I agree to the faux-red-jewel barrette as well as the stretchy top, though I insist on a filmy patterned scarf that I can throw around my shoulders if I feel too exposed.
    â€œYou look cute,” Celeste decides, and off we go.
    It’s about a ten-minute drive to the Square, then a ten-minute hunt for street parking, and by this time, it’s dark. Celeste is practically skipping as we cruise up the street, passing two other bars and a restaurant as we aim for the new place. It’s got an old-fashioned neon sign out front featuring the word ARABESQUE above a martini glass and a woman’s bright red mouth puckered for a kiss.
    â€œWow. Arabesque. Gotta be the first time anyone in Quinville ever said the word,” I observe.
    â€œDon’t be snarky,” Celeste says. “Though, I have to admit, the first time I heard someone pronounce it, she called it Ara-bes-kyoo. Took me forever to figure out what she meant.”
    I’m still giggling as we arrive at the door, where there are two guys sitting on tall stools taking cover money and stamping hands with special ink. Apparently Celeste knows one of them—young, long-haired, with the kind of dreamy looks you see in models on romance books—because she exclaims, “Marcus!” and instantly starts flirting. Using one hand to dig for my wallet, I hold out my other hand to the second attendant so he can stamp it.
    â€œHave to see your ID first,” he says. “Sorry.”
    I look up at him, laughing again. “Really? No, I’m flattered.”
    He laughs back. He has a round baby face that looks made for smiling and big dark eyes filled with bright curiosity. He’s seated, so it’s hard to tell, but I’d guess he’s six-one or six-two, kind of bulky, a big guy who probably has to work at it to stay in shape now that he’s edging out of his twenties. Probably doubles as the bouncer, since the slimmer, prettier Marcus doesn’t look like he has the body strength to throw someone out into the street.
    â€œWe’re supposed to card anyone who’s under thirty,” he says.
    â€œOkay, so now I’m not as flattered,” I say, handing over a five dollar bill and my license.
    He takes them both but doesn’t look at either. He’s tilted his head to one side, assessing me. “I’d say—twenty-five,” he estimates.
    â€œDead on the money,” I admit. “Do you guess height and weight, too?”
    He’s grinning again. “No. I don’t want people looking at
me
and saying, ‘I bet that porker weighs four hundred pounds.’”
    â€œSurely it’s more like two twenty,”