An orange light flickered at the corner of her vision. Cinder was used to the little orange light; it came up all the time. It meant that someone was lying.

Peony’s silk dress felt like poison Ivy sliding over Cinder’s skin. This was not her dress. She was fake in it. An imposter. The grease smudged silk gloves were too delicate; she worried she might snag them on some poorly placed screw. She was a walking disaster and she knew it.