The bulldog man glares at her. “I’ll tell you something, girl. If we stand a chance at slipping past the guards, you’re gonna have to learn to keep your trap shut.”
She growls with lips pursed but doesn’t say anything else.
I underestimated this man. Maybe he’s not as untrustworthy as he seems.
He nods at her. “Better. Now as I said, follow me. We can’t go into a masquerade looking like a bunch of filth off the streets.”
The four of us exchange another glance before trailing behind him down the street. A masquerade, huh? Not what I expected but something I can deal with just the same.
Good thing for us I’m an excellent dancer.
TWENTY-NINE
Because I Love You
The Verity is mine.
If Isabeau thinks she’s going to be the vessel again, she’s mental. I won’t sleep, won’t eat. I won’t rest until I’ve tried every mirror in whatever place we’re headed. I will find my way out. Better watch it, Lion Lady. The only place the Verity is going is to destroy the Void. Get ready for a heart attack. The kind that makes it so darkness never was.
Rain pound, pound, pounds. I blink, wipe the hard drops away. No use, of course. The relentless pour won’t cease. Lightning and thunder explode the sky, splitting the clouds with every clap and rumble.
Odessa waves me forward. Is she shouting something? Can’t hear over the downpour. Don’t need to, really. From my short time spent with the woman, I can guess it’s something such as “Hurry up.” Or “This way.” Or “Keep close.” Does the Matron of Munchkins ever stop telling people what to do or where to go?
A glimpse over my shoulder reveals my grandfather behind me. He tips his hat, rain spilling from the brim. He’s unreadable. Is genuine coldness a thing? Because if so, he pulls it off. What’s the forties phrase I’m searching for?
A real humdinger.
When I face forward once more, I watch my footsteps. My sneakers slosh in the inches of water flooding the streets. An Ozident bumps me, not bothering to apologize, and she sprints across the road and into the nearest doorway. My shoulders are heavy. My mind. My heart. This always happens when it rains. As if darkness looms and the only way to go is the wrong one. When the clouds free their tears, I can’t help but get sick to my stomach.
The farther we walk, the more the shadows fold over me. I lift my head to find a palace at the end of the sopping road. The street seems to narrow the closer we get, the buildings forming an arrow herding us to the palace doors. Unlike the domed governmental building, this one’s all sharp edges and angles. The spires spear the clouds, disappearing within their mist. But this, by far, is not the most noteworthy detail. Rather, the entire structure is stained glass. And the best part? The rain washes away the grime, shines and polishes. Like a first snow in Manhattan.
I can’t help but stop and admire the sudden beauty of it all. Odessa climbs the winding narrow steps to the doors. Yet I am glued in place.
Jasyn stands beside me. “What is it? What do you see?”
The anger-fueled girl bursting to be let out again screams to be heard. She can’t take this moment from me, though. The Verity swirls in rhythm with my heart.
Thump, beat, pitter.
Patter, thrum, pulse.
I sigh and swallow. Close my eyes. I’m the girl in the snow, imagining the white washing my mirrormark away. Only now, the scene has altered. As the rain makes everything new, the sinking sensation I had minutes ago drains too. And all that’s left is this single stirring deep inside, where even my worst self can’t get to.
“What is it?” the teen boy asks again.
I open my eyes and take my first step. My answer isn’t for anyone but myself.
Hope. I see hope.
“You look ravishing, darling. Simply stunning.” Odessa busies herself tucking me into this unbreathable dress.
I’d expected it to be green like my coronation gown and everything else around here. But, oddly enough, it’s not. Instead, this dress is a soft gold, forties-style gown, with puffed sleeves and a V neckline. The fabric is a stiff brocade with sage vines embroidered throughout. It’s far less extravagant than what I wore in the past—future—but also exceedingly less comfortable. No mistaking the thing wasn’t designed for me. Too long. Too tight. Size zero is really more of an Ebony thing. But hey, who’s counting?
As if addressing my unspoken dilemma, Odessa snatches a corner of the gown’s skirt and shoves it in my open hand. “You’ll just have to hold this away from the floor. We’ve no time to make alterations.”
How am I supposed to cover my chest and keep myself from tripping? Where’s Rodgers and Hammerstein’s fairy godmother when I need her? She’d argue, but the task is simply “Impossible.” If I bend over, I’ll fall out of this thing. I don’t fill out the chestal area, which is part of the issue. There’s just this huge gap between fabric and bra. Tiny waist and big, well, you know. Whoever this dress belongs to is a supermodel. The airbrushed kind. And that’s when it hits me.
The dress belongs to Isabeau.
“Come, come, we must do something with that hair.”
I sit on a low cushy stool before an old-fashioned vanity while Odessa stands on an even lower stool and does my makeup. She powders my nose with something sneeze worthy, then she curls my lashes and paints my lips. The pampering is relaxing and nerve-racking at once. In an unexpected instant, the dress feels tighter. But it isn’t the gown that’s giving me heart pangs.
I miss my sister.
If Ebony were here, she’d ease my fears about what’s to come. She’d flip her hand in the air, roll her eyes, and tell me what a big deal this is so not. We have our differences, more than our similarities, for sure. But our opposites help the other grow. I was just getting to know her. Will I ever see her again?
Will I see anyone again after tonight?
Drip, drop, drip. The rain creates a rhythm. Drop, drip, drop. My head sways along to the tune.
“Hold still.” Odessa tugs on my greasy locks, powdering them with the forties version of dry shampoo. “How do you expect me to fix you up if you keep squirming like a child?” She teases and combs, twists and pins.
The style is elegant and classic, and I like it better than I expected. I turn my head this way and that, admiring the Munchkin woman’s work. I’ve never seen myself this way, face clear of blemishes, right side matching my left with makeup and hair done up like a calendar girl. Is this how Joshua sees me all the time? Perfect?
I don’t like it.
Pitter, patter, drip, drip, drop . . .
It’s too much, too . . . fake. I want to stand out in the rain, let it wash the paint away. Draw my mirrormark. Then at least I’d be me.
Odessa grabs my hand and drags me toward the door. She really needs to stop treating me like a dog on a leash.
“What about my shoes?” I pick up my dress and point to my sneakered toe.
She waves a dismissive hand. “No one will be looking at your feet, dear.”
Her very Ever After line reminds me evil never triumphs. It didn’t with Drew Barrymore and it sure as Cinderella won’t overcome me.
A half smile tugs at my painted lips.
Then we’re out the door.