It is a part of being alive today.” — Mary Quant Ryder looked longingly at the puddle of black clothes in the bathroom’s corner as she fingered the soft pink sarong similar to the one she’d worn for the blessing ceremony. Her gold rope bracelet slid down her forearm as she reached up to twist a length of hair, but her fingers came up empty. Long stray strands of hair littered the floor, a ten-inch long chunk of brown hair held together by a rubber band lay on the counter. Instead of tangling around her shoulders, the curls stopped at her chin. The temporary dye job had turned the color to an almost blue black. At least the ebony color was as familiar as her all-black wardrobe since everything thing else reflected in the mirror was so different—not bad, but unfamiliar. Maybe it was time for that. She didn’t know if this crazy scheme would work, but when Borja had proposed sneaking into the Molina warehouse under the guise of a De Mis Promesas festival delegation, it was the best bad idea they had.
