Illuminate (20 page)

“Ahhh, well that’s what I would’ve guessed if it was a hybrid.” I paused for reaction, but Dante only looked hurt by my poor joke. “Kidding, I’m kidding. It’s amazing, thank you. Totally brightens up this place. And, gotta tell you: I’m getting so many flowers today, listen to this—”

He cut me off. “Oh, and don’t water it. It’s tough.”

“Like, ever?”

“For a while,” he said.

“Okay, like a cactus, I guess.” I stroked it like it was a pet. “Does it matter that there’s no sunlight to speak of down here? How’s this bad boy going to photosynthesize?”

“It’s resilient.”

“Aren’t we all,” I joked. “So c’mon and sit down. What’s going on today? Crazy, right? I haven’t been up there since people started checking in—what’s it like?”

“Yeah, no, I’d better run, tons to do with Etan, but enjoy. See you tonight!” He kissed my cheek and ran out the door before I could stop him. He must’ve been stressed out. I sniffed the plant’s sweet scent again. It was unlike anything I’d seen.

I had just stepped out of the shower and was still mooning about my Valentine’s Day flowers when suddenly my room was filled with a buzzing that would not stop. It was an old-fashioned rattling sort of buzz, very bee-like, but loud. Not so loud that it might be a fire alarm, but loud enough that I had to figure out how to make it stop or risk losing my mind. But in order to silence it, I had to first locate it. It was coming from the back of the room, near those curtains that covered the empty space where a window might have been if we weren’t underground. Gripping both sides of the curtains, I threw them back in one swift motion. And, sure enough, there it was: a small silver box, looking like something from the 1950s, with a couple of buttons on the top and a dotted circular panel for a speaker. How was it possible I hadn’t known this room had an intercom? I pressed the button marked Talk.

“Hello?”

“Haven, Haven, Haven,” Lucian’s liquid voice flowed out, filling my room, rising above the gravelly static that came with it and making me dreamy. I started playing with my necklace absent-mindedly and pulled my towel tighter around me, as though he were actually in the room.

“Hi . . . Lucian, um . . . how are you?”

“Excited for tonight and, of course, slightly manic.” He said it perfectly calm, so much so that his voice could lull a person to sleep. “I’m just relaying a quick message. Aurelia”—he drew out her name, giving me time to get nervous—“would like to see you. She’s in her penthouse—penthouse one.”

“Oh, certainly, I’ll be up in just a minute.” I flashed through all I had to do in order to look presentable enough to see her. “Um, is everything—”

“Yes, promise, everything’s fine.” I could hear the smile in his voice. “She has something for you. For tonight. So don’t worry about being dressed now. Whatever state you’re in is perfectly acceptable.” I scanned the room, but, no, that was crazy. I mean, he couldn’t
see
me. Sometimes, whenever I had a severe crush on someone, I had this sense that they were watching everything I did, that they could see me even when I was completely and entirely alone. I think that just happens when someone occupies so much space in your mind. You’re thinking about them more than you’re not; looking at them, looking for them, looking at yourself to see what they would think if they were looking at you at that moment. It’s exhausting, but exhilarating. That electric current, the stirring in your veins, and flutter in your stomach and your heart, is what can get a person through the day.

“Um, okay, if you say so.”

“I do.”

“Then I’ll be right there.”

That was it. He and the static disappeared on the other end.

13. Beauty Is Genius

The flutter and fire I felt when I heard Lucian’s voice quickly revved up, morphing into fear, leaving me harried and overheated. Obviously I wasn’t about to go up to Aurelia’s penthouse looking this way. What did she have for me? I threw on my uniform and I dried my hair as fast as I could and wound it into the best bun—or, rather, chignon, thank you very much—that I could muster, trying to remember how Dante had done it.

In record time I was out the door and up the freight elevator to the penthouse level, which I had only seen that first day on the tour. It was like an entirely different hotel up there near the skylight, and now that night was setting in, I couldn’t help but linger to look up. From here it was clear which were stars and which were reflections of the chandelier’s many bulbs—how many had Lance said there were?—and they all twinkled, assuring you that there was magic in this place.

The carpet in the hallway was so soft and plush under my heels, it had a quicksand effect, slowing my trajectory to penthouse number one. But I arrived there eventually, and knocked and waited. The door creaked open.

“Hello, Haven,” Aurelia breathed out at me in her rasp.

“Hello . . .” I had planned to say, “You look lovely,” but she was wearing a black satin robe, so I vetoed that line and was too flustered to come up with anything else. From the neck up, she was entirely ready to go, though. Her hair had been pinned in a looser, wavier version of what I’d attempted to do with mine, but hers was secured at the side instead of straight back. It was sexy and perfect, with just the right pieces falling at her neck and around the delicate angles of her face. Her makeup was appropriately smoky: kohl-rimmed eyes, shaded all around with shimmery blacks and grays. Sultry and smoldering, a look worthy of a perfume ad. Finally, I spoke again. “I like your hair.”

“Thank you. Soon I suspect you’ll like yours too. Come.”

She waved me in, looking me up and down, with the kind of blank expression that can be taken as polite criticism. I followed her, glancing quickly around the room: no Lucian. I didn’t know whether I was glad or not—maybe relieved actually. If he were here and she had opened the door looking this way, then I would be forced to think of only one thing—them together—and I preferred not to think about that.

Now that I could push that thought out of my mind, I was free to appreciate the splendors of the penthouse. A wall of windows looked out onto the shining lights of Chicago with the pulse of cars zipping along Michigan Avenue below. It was a good thing I didn’t have a room like this or I would spend all my time daydreaming. Aurelia led me to a mirrored vanity with a precious little chair and so many cosmetics and hair products and appliances spread out in neat little rows. I stood nearby as she rifled through her closet, taking out a garment bag and hanging it on a golden coat rack. She unzipped the bag but didn’t unsheathe what was inside.

“Well, go ahead, sit down,” she said, gesturing to the vanity seat. I did as I was told.

“This is a beautiful room,” I said, trying not to be obvious as I peeked into the bedroom doorway past the entrance to the walk-in closet. A corner of the lavender and sage satin-covered bed poked out. The same colors as my room but so much more plush and luxurious here. You could only have good dreams in a place like this. And a pleasant reality too.

Aurelia ignored my attempt at small talk. “So you’ll be playing the role of my right-hand woman tonight. You’ll be at my side, doing what I ask, acting as a face for the hotel, meeting the city’s various influentials.” She paused. Enough time passed that I realized I needed to jump in before she would go on.

“Wow, thank you. That sounds fantastic.” I couldn’t help letting on that I was pleasantly stunned.

“You sound surprised.”

“Oh, no, not at all—” In my attempt to sound confident, I was now starting to sound obnoxious and egotistical, so I shifted gears. “I’m thrilled . . . Absolutely . . . What can I do?”

“First, you can start looking the part.” She stood behind me, her hands on my shoulders as she considered my reflection in the mirror. “If you’re to be seen as something of my protégée tonight, then we’d better have you looking that way.” In one swift motion, she unclipped my hair, letting my long mane fall and ruffling it up with her fingers. Just that motion made my hair more voluminous than it had ever looked when I tried to do anything with it. She looked me over with tense eyes and firm lips, as though proposing and rejecting in her mind a million different ways to transform this blank canvas. Finally: “There’s a robe hanging behind the closet door. Put it on.”

I nodded and disappeared into the walk-in closet. I had never seen so many clothes outside of a department store. Racks and shelves full of precisely folded or crisply hung garments, all in black, navy, or patterns with an anchor of black or navy, made of satins and silks, the most luxurious and slinky fabrics. I ran my fingers across a handful of dresses hanging innocently just waiting to be put on and instantly transformed into something that begged for attention and got it from so many eyes. Lined up on several of the shelves sat more shoes—towering, teetering heels—than it seemed possible for one woman to wear in her lifetime.

“Did you find it, Haven?” Aurelia called to me through the door. I quickly shimmied out of my uniform and threw it on the floor in a heap.

“Yes, got it right here,” I called back, yanking the flimsy robe off the hook where it hung alone. It smelled like her, like those spicy florals of Lucian’s flower. I tied it around me, the satin cool against my skin.

She already had a water spray bottle and comb in her hand when I emerged from the room. She pointed at the chair, I sat quietly, and then she made a motion for me to swivel toward her, away from the mirror.

“Beauty,” she said as she took my chin in her hand and looked me over, “is a form of genius. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Sure,” I said. I didn’t really get it though. To me genius is genius—people like Nobel Prize winners and brain surgeons and artists. But beauty itself? The act of being beautiful? It wasn’t even an action at all; it was purely passive. And genius is never passive. But I didn’t think it was my place to say so. “I suppose.”

“Beauty gets you what you want, every time,” she went on. She spritzed my crown, took a glob of gel and coated my hair, then ran the comb through, slicing a side part on the right—I was generally a middle part kind of girl. She swiped the comb down smoothing my wet hair and then I felt her form what seemed to be ridges between her fingers and press them down against my head to set them. “It is the ultimate manipulation tool. It allows you to get away with certain things. People want to be near it, they want it to rub off on them. It’s powerful, if you know how to use it.” Finished with the ridges, she took a fat section of my hair, winding it around a thick curling iron.

“The greatest sin isn’t taking advantage of it, but rather not knowing how to use it at all.” She sprayed my hair and began curling another section. I wondered if this statement was directed toward me or if she was speaking in generalities. If this was about me then at least it would be flattering—it hadn’t occurred to me that I possessed enough of this to possibly be used for manipulative powers. Now that I thought about it, that attitude was probably my first problem. “I shouldn’t have to tell you that you could get away with an awful lot if you wanted to.” My eyes shot to hers at this, on reflex. She only glanced at me as she set the curling iron down. Her fingers fluttered, twirling and tying back my hair low and to the side, like hers. Perhaps she was waiting for me to say something. I wanted to. I wanted to know more. If being at the Lexington had taught me anything, it was that I wasn’t a thing like the people here. I studied them, dissected as best I could what made them
them,
but I didn’t think I could duplicate their essence.

“I could?” I finally asked. Her hands paused in my hair for a moment and then resumed tucking in some final strands, pinning it all tightly against my head.

“Oh yes,” she assured me. I liked this idea. I turned it over in my mind, looking at it from different angles. I pictured myself like these people, acting like them, carrying myself with that poise and radiating the alluring detachment that comes with knowing you’re being watched and admired. She must’ve known I was thinking this. “You have to decide you want it,” she continued. “You just have to commit to us, trust us.” She looked straight in my eyes. Then, a compact in her hands, she swept a fluffy powdered brush across my face.

“Oh?” I thought I was already doing this. I had to try to defend myself a bit without being defensive, if that was possible. “Is there something that would show you how serious I am about doing a good job?” Her back was to me now as she selected her next beautification tool.

“We know you’re a hard worker, Haven.” With a sharp wand—liquid eyeliner—she leaned in. I closed my eyes and the wand licked at the edge of my upper lashes, warm. “You’ll have a chance to prove yourself even more as we go forward. You’re going to be key to our recruitment efforts.”

“Recruitment?”

“You’ll see.” She lined the other eye, then she swept a series of other brushes across my lids, drawing and coloring me in. When she moved onto my cheeks, I opened my eyes. She dusted me with a blush from a rich pink compact then snapped it shut and scanned the perfectly aligned tubes of lipstick on the vanity. Deciding on one, she found the thinnest, most twig-like brush and coated it with a deep ruby color, dabbing at my lips.

“Youth is invincible, you know.” She sighed. “The greatest tragedy is to be content with a boring youth.” This felt like a knife to the heart. Was this how she thought of me?

“Sometimes I think you make sacrifices in the present, you play it safe, you keep your focus, so you can reap the rewards in the future,” I proposed. But it came out hesitant, like I was trying to convince not just her but myself.

“There’s no passion in that. A person has to live for the present.”

That was exactly opposite everything I’d ever been told—to think of the future, lay the foundation now, know where you were headed. My life wasn’t constructed in a way that offered any instant gratification, but I didn’t quite feel like I was missing out. Not yet anyway.

She spun me around, facing the mirror at last. For the second time in as many days I didn’t recognize myself. I loved it. Aurelia had given me an exact replica of her hairstyle: 1920s-era finger waves and a low, messy side chignon. My eyes were smoky and smudgy with so many layers of black and gray; my amber irises seemed sparkly slivers barely peeking through, glowing like a cat’s gaze. My lips, painted a glossy lacquered red, looked fuller than I thought possible.