The woman in the mirror was a stranger.
Katarina turned sideways and looked again, just to confirm, and yep, that was still her.
Her black hair pinned up with silver clasps, her purple eyes lined with something Seris had called festival kohl. And the dress.
The dress was transparent silk.
Not sheer-if-you-squint transparent. Not tastefully translucent transparent. The fabric was the color of dark wine and it was see-through. Her tits were completely visible. Her stomach was visible. The lines of her hips were visible. There was a sash at the waist that provided structural integrity and absolutely nothing else, and below that the silk split at her left thigh and went all the way to the floor. If she shifted her weight even slightly, the split opened.
It was, by a margin so wide it could be measured from space, the sluttiest thing she had ever worn in either lifetime.
