Altered

SIXTEEN

THE NEXT MORNING, A KNOCK ON THE door to my quarters startles me. I’ve been sitting at the desk, absently brushing my hair. When I open the door, a younger valet is waiting with a silver tray perched on his fingers. A small ivory card with my name penned in elegant writing rests on it. I take the card and nod a thank-you to the valet.

“My instructions are to wait for your response, miss,” he says in a clipped tone.

“Okay, give me a moment.” I turn into my room, and after some hesitation, shut the door. I can’t stand the thought of him waiting there, watching me. I’m not fond of the idea of shutting the door in his face either, but, well, choices.

I unfold the card:

Adelice,

Please accept my sincere apologies for yesterday’s unfortunate interlude. I want you to feel secure here, but I don’t wish you to think ill of me. To relieve the tension from last evening, I’ve arranged a small play for you and your friends’ amusement in the theater. I hope it will show you the positives of having Tailors available for our use. Please let me know if you are available for the presentation at three o’clock.

Most sincerely yours,

Kincaid

My eyes flick to the ticking clock on my nightstand. It’s already noon. I scrawl my acceptance across the bottom, trying to sound enthusiastic and failing miserably.

I don’t want to go, but this isn’t so much an invitation as a summons. I traipse back to the door, nearly tripping over my dressing gown, and give the card to the valet, who does a good job of not looking too annoyed at having had the door shut in his face.

“Thank you,” I say, but he merely tilts his head in acknowledgment, pivots to the right, and moves down the hall.

I’ve barely shut the door when another knock forces me to open it again. On the other side I find Jost standing there with two large turquoise boxes. Another valet is walking hurriedly down the hall, carrying more of the same boxes. I raise an eyebrow at Jost.

“A gift from our amiable host,” Jost says, nodding to be let in.

“I see you’ve been invited to the show then,” I say.

“And what a show it will be,” Jost mutters. He crosses to the bed and sets down the boxes. I walk over and lift the lid of the one with the tag addressed to me. Inside I find a cloud of pink tissue paper. I push it open and pull a silk gown from the box. It’s a lovely pale pink and the fabric swims down my body when I hold it up. The décolletage is a sunburst of crystal. I turn it over and study the draping back, finding another sunburst to decorate my derriere.

“Pretty,” Jost says. It’s as much enthusiasm as he can muster up for something as shallow as clothes.

“Let’s see what you got,” I say.

“Oh, I hope mine is purple and shows more skin,” he says with a wink.

“If you are going to be a smart-ass, I hope it does too.”

He lifts a pressed black suit jacket from the box. “No such luck.”

“You’ll look dapper,” I say.

“I’ll be uncomfortable.”

“I never knew you were so anti-tux,” I say.

“Tuxes are for men like Cormac.”

“And what’s for a man like you?” I ask, pulling the jacket from his hands and tossing it down on the bed.

“Careful, you’ll wrinkle that,” he starts, but as I latch my arms around his chest, he stops.

“How very conscientious of you,” I murmur as I move closer to him.

“What can I say? You know what a conscientious guy I am,” he says, but the words mute as my lips meet his.

“I think the dress is pretty. It will be beautiful when you’re in it,” he says, pulling away from me.

“Should I try it on?” I ask.

Jost hesitates for moment, his eyes growing serious.

“We’re alone here and we have hours to get dressed.”

He sinks onto the bed and watches me with serious, widening eyes. For a moment, I feel shy, my bravado failing me, but my fingers grip the sash of my robe, and I hope he doesn’t see how they tremble as I begin to pull it open. His hand reaches up to grip mine, stopping the shaking, but also stopping me from opening the robe. For a second I expect he’s going to pull it open himself and I wonder what his hands will feel like there. Somewhere my mother’s voice calls to me, but it can’t compete with the roar of blood that floods through my body, igniting every inch of my skin.

“You don’t have to do this, Ad,” he whispers instead. His hand pulls mine away from the belt and we stare at each other for a long moment, and then I listen to my body and sink against him, my legs straddling his lap, my arms wrapping around his neck. His breath is hot against my collarbone and as he slides his fingers through my loose hair a shiver runs down my spine. He’s bringing his lips to mine when another knock interrupts us.

“What is it, annual knock-on-Adelice’s-door day?” I grumble.

Jost’s hands fall from me and he grins shyly and then casually pulls me up to my feet.

“Come on, Kincaid is probably inviting us to another wild party.”

“Can we be so lucky?” I ask.

But it’s not a valet waiting outside the door. It’s Valery. Her cosmetics are perfectly applied, less drastic than the first night we saw her here, but she still looks exotic with her wide, dark eyes and midnight hair. She’s wrapped in the same robe she wore last night, but it’s clear that she’s done up for this afternoon’s event.

“I thought I could get you ready,” she offers. Her eyes flash to Jost, who’s standing awkwardly by my bed.

Like old times, I think. I want to send her away. She might feel the need to hide under a painted mask when she’s with Kincaid, but I’ve got more important things to do than getting primped for a charade of civility.

“That sounds nice,” Jost answers for me, grabbing his tuxedo box. “I should get dressed. Check in on Erik.”

Check in on Erik? Erik is the last person he’d want to see. He’s trying to avoid where we were going a few moments ago. “Sure,” I say. “Help him tie his bow tie. Curl each other’s hair.”

I don’t try to hide the annoyance in my voice.

Jost smiles and shakes his head slightly as if to remind me to watch myself. “I’ll see you later.” He kisses my forehead at the door, then looks to Valery and back to me. “You two have fun.”

Fun is probably the last thing we’ll be having, but I give him a small smile.

Valery wastes no time once he’s gone.

She rushes to my bed and lifts the silk dress from the heap I’ve left it in. Smoothing it out, she crosses to my closet and hangs it carefully on the closet door.

“Lovely,” she says, surveying the gown. “You should wear your hair down. We’ll put some waves in it.”

I open my mouth to ask her why she’s doing this, but then I shut it again. It’s the friendliest Valery has been since we discovered her here. Perhaps she feels badly about what happened with Deniel. I can’t exactly blame her for being cold to me after Enora’s suicide.

But I can wonder what she’s up to.

“It’s good I came now. They don’t have the kind of tools I had at the Coventry. This will take some time,” she says.

I follow her into the bathroom and she urges me toward the sink. There’s no fancy chair for me to sit in while she dampens my hair, so I bend awkwardly and she presses my head down under the flowing water. It’s freezing and my body tenses.

“Sorry,” she says absently, and I feel the water grow warmer. A moment later, her long fingers run through my hair, massaging shampoo into my scalp. It feels good for a moment but then her fingers grow more frenzied in their actions until she’s practically scraping me with her fingernails. I wince, and she repeats her apology. She lets the water rinse out the soap and it slides into my eyes. I squeeze them shut but feel the sting of the shampoo. She lifts my head and wraps a thick towel around me, offering me a washcloth to wipe my eyes.

When we return to my room, I sit at the vanity and she pulls the towel from my head. Water drips down my back, and my robe sticks to my skin from the moisture.

I feel a comb running through my hair and water gushes to my shoulders as she pulls it into a straight line.

“You should cut this,” she says. “Less work.”

“I like it long,” I say. My mother’s hair was long. My mother’s hair is long, I correct myself, but I push the thought back out of my head, fighting against the helplessness I feel when I think of her. I don’t want to imagine her roaming around her cage, deep in the cells under the estate.

“As you wish.”

“You don’t have to do this,” I say. “I mean, I can get ready on my own.”

“I’m sure you can, but Kincaid expects a certain level of aestheticism when it comes to his guests.”

“I can put on cosmetics,” I snap.

“Fine.” She drops her hands and steps back from me. “I thought we could talk.”

I soften a little at her words, feeling ungrateful and confused at the same time. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to feel like you had to do this. You aren’t my aesthetician anymore.”

“I know that. I liked doing your cosmetics, Adelice,” she says. “I’m not offering out of obligation.”

“In that case, thank you,” I say.

She retrieves long, thin pieces of fabric from her pocket. Her eyes meet mine and she pulls one taut between her hands, and for a moment I’m scared of the stranger I see reflected there. Who is this?

But then she takes a section of my hair and wraps it with precision around the fabric, tying it off at the end.

“Like I said, we don’t have the same tools at our disposal here.”

I swallow hard and nod. “Is that why you wear your cosmetics differently?”

“Kincaid likes the geisha aesthetic. It’s an old Earth style,” she responds in a quiet voice. “I often do my cosmetics to please him.”

But that’s not the only thing she does to please him. Still, today her face, while lined and painted, reflects the aesthetic of an Arras woman. I wonder if she’s trying to send him a message after last night’s spectacle, reminding Kincaid where she comes from.

She repeats the action until most of the hair framing my face is wrapped up into the rags. She faces me and leans in, taking my chin in her hands and studying me. Her breath smells of cinnamon.

Even here, after everything that’s happened, Valery is the essence of poise. Her skin silky, everything about her soft. Her fingers, though, are cold on my face and they pinch my skin as she turns my head to inspect me.

“How am I holding up?” I mutter through my nearly closed mouth.

“Well enough. A little cosmetics and no one will see the damage.”

I frown. Damage?

“None of that,” she says in regard to my dubious expression. “It makes it worse.”

In fairness, I’ve been through a lot. I’m not exactly looking forward to another round of cosmetics, but if it gets Valery talking, it will be worth it.

She reaches for the bag she brought and pulls out a cream, which she smooths over my face. Her brushes dance over my cheekbones, glide against my eyelids, and line my lips. For a moment, I close my eyes and imagine I’m in my quarters at the Coventry. Enora will meet me to take me to training or a meeting or a carefully prepared feast. This will have been a dream—or will it have been a nightmare?

I’m not sure.

“Open your eyes,” Valery commands. I do so, and she brushes a mascara wand roughly through my lashes. I catch a glimpse of her in the mirror. She’s concentrating, which makes her look like she used to—engaged in her work. She did truly enjoy it. She hadn’t been lying about that. Her robe has fallen off her shoulder and there I spy it—a thick purple mark running across her olive skin. It creeps toward her neck, but doesn’t quite reach it. A lavender scar. Her eyes catch mine staring in the mirror, and she tugs the robe back up.

“Let’s get that dress on,” she suggests.

I stand and let my dressing gown fall to the floor in a puddle.

“You should be more careful.” Valery clucks under her breath.

My eyes follow hers and I see a patch of blue blooming on my calf.

“Probably from Deniel’s attack,” I say, shrugging it off.

“There are plenty of things to hurt yourself on here,” Valery says, but her words are colored with warning. She draws my gown into her hands and waits.

I’ve worn enough of these dresses to know only one thing works under them. Nothing. She drops the dress over my head and I let the straps fall over my hands. The dress slides gracefully into place.

“Lovely,” she says.

“We didn’t talk much,” I say.

Valery pauses and pain flashes across her face. “I know.”

“You didn’t want to,” I accuse lightly.

“No, I didn’t.”

I start to ask her why, but she steps to the side and pulls the rags from my hair, which bounces down into soft curls that fall across my shoulders. I watch her in the mirror. She came because she wanted to do this. She wanted her old life, if only for a moment. She tugs one side of my hair up with a sparkling comb and stops to look at our reflection. I can’t bring myself to smile, but Valery positively glows. We look glamorous and polished. We look like ghosts from Arras.

“Beautiful,” she says with pride in her voice. She places her hand on my shoulder and I’m transported back to another time. Another world. My imagination sketches in Enora where she would have stood in the Coventry.

“Do you miss her?” I whisper.

Her hand falls and her expression changes. She steps away from me, still meeting my eyes in the mirror.

“I don’t want to talk about her with you.”

“So what? You’ve replaced her? With Kincaid?” I challenge.

“I never want to hear you mention Enora again,” Valery snaps. “She’s dead, and you have no right to even think of her.”

“Someone has to,” I accuse. “She tried to help me. She knew what was going to happen to her, that’s why she gave me that digifile.”

“And what did that cost her?” Valery asks. “Helping you, getting you that digifile. Enora trusted too many people, and it destroyed her.”

Enora had revealed her concern, showing her hand by giving me that digifile. Had the person who helped her get it betrayed her to the Guild? It doesn’t matter, because I understand why she did it. “She led me to the truth even after her death, and you don’t care.”

“Caring won’t bring her back. It will only bring us pain,” Valery warns.

“I dream of her—of how I found her. I’ll never stop thinking of Enora,” I say in a determined voice. Valery might dismiss Enora’s memory, but I won’t.

“Don’t worry,” Valery says in a sharp tone. “After a while you’ll stop dreaming.”

But dreams are the least of my concerns. After she leaves, only one thing consumes me: the lilac scar licking up her shoulder. She’s hiding it, and I have a suspicion I know why.

Valery has been altered.