The fabric itself—a deep burgundy and a dark blue, each with a distinctive, nubbled sheen—was appropriate to the station in which Jarven had dumped her. If current necklines were immodest, this dress clashed with them all; she felt as if she were wearing armor. With skirts. Which was why Finch disliked them. The dress she wore today had not, by the second or third hour of wear, faded into the background the way her regular clothing did. She was constantly aware of its presence—and of its value. The value made her wretchedly nervous, although it was almost immaterial; no one who did not know the cloth itself would remark on it. Likewise, the reason the cloth was so valuable. No one would know but Finch, Haval, and Jarven. Finch, however, was the only one wearing it. It reminded her constantly of all the ways in which her life might end. The deaths at the Merchants’ guildhall had yet to be fully tallied; men and women were still listed as missing by their various families, and the excavations required by both the Mysterium and the Magisterium had whittled that list down every few hours.
What do You think about Oracle: The House War: Book Six?
