Here’s a name you don’t hear often. Violette Reign.
The words rolled effortlessly off her tongue. Her perfect French scattered a
pack of wild chills up my spine. No way I was going to repeat it without
practicing—Slav roots and hard R’s be damned.
It suited her. One look at her, shivering in the cold February night air, inside the courtyard where we were all gathered, and I knew she had reinvented herself with it. It was not the fact that she was obviously cold (and that thin leather jacket did not help either), no. She shivered with grace; a delicate tremble of the shoulders, a gentle sway of her hips, all the time standing on the tip of her toes.
The fool that I was, I fell for it. I offered her my coat, which she refused with a smile.
“I am not that cold, really,” she said. “Besides…
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