Illuminate (21 page)

“Thank you. This is amazing,” I said to my reflection.

She didn’t seem to hear it, her mind obviously elsewhere. “Don’t you ever get tired of being . . . perfectly good?” She seemed truly curious.

“Um, it’s not something I ever thought about. It’s not a conscious thing,” I said, turning away from my reflection and toward her. “And I’m certainly nowhere near perfect.”

“Don’t you find it all exhausting?”

“I find it just . . . natural.” I had that sinking feeling that I had done something wrong, something that was offensive to her.

“I think you may not realize there’s much to learn from testing boundaries. There’s much to be enjoyed from leaving your comfort zone. It has been said, in fact, that sinning takes courage.”

She had this way of leading me down these paths in our talks from which I didn’t know how to artfully escape. I didn’t know where she was going, what she wanted, or expected from me. I was still attempting to formulate some sort of response when she abandoned it altogether.

“Go on and put that on.” She flicked her head toward the garment bag hanging on the rack and began packing up her makeup supplies.

I took down the heavy garment bag and returned to the closet. Inside was a sparkly black flapper-style dress, complete with a long beaded fringe all over, with a tiny matching bag. It made a swishing sound as I pulled it off the hanger. I slipped it on and found it fit perfectly. If this had been Aurelia’s, it didn’t make any sense how it would fit me, since I had neither her curves nor her height, and yet it felt like it was the right size. I peeked at myself quickly in the full-length mirror in the closet. The dress was definitely quite short—the hem hit somewhere in the middle of my thigh—but it wasn’t going anywhere. The V of the top, despite the thick straps, was cut in such a way that I’d have to be careful or a bit of those scars would peek out. It would be difficult to keep it in place, I could tell. I turned around, trying to check the back—my other scars were well concealed. I took a few tentative steps out of the closet, bracing myself for her critique. She nodded, as if to say,
Not bad at all.

“This is really an amazing dress; thank you for letting me wear it.” My hands smoothed it out, hoping the motion might elongate the fabric somehow. I tugged at the hem, not realizing it, and then caught a look from her—icy, like a lake freezing over—and stopped, straightening my back and standing tall.

She didn’t speak; she just brushed past me into the closet to a narrow wooden armoire I’d seen there. She opened the double doors at the top and velvet racks of necklaces gleamed, gems of every hue so magnificent they looked like they should’ve been at the Field Museum. She opened another drawer and took out a ring, canary-colored and nearly the size of a golf ball, and slid it onto her finger, and then two matching drop earrings, lemon stones on a string of diamonds.

“I want it to be clear to our guests that you’re one of us,” she said as she closed up the case. “You do have pierced ears, I hope?”

“Yes, I do,” I said, relieved to be able to answer that question correctly. Joan had made a big deal of taking me on my thirteenth birthday to get my ears pierced, but now I hardly ever bothered with earrings at all.

She fastened them onto my ears and then slipped the ring off her finger and onto mine. I looked in the mirror and sparkled back at myself. I couldn’t see anything but the jewels. The earrings hung just below my hair, peeking out and swaying whenever I moved. I touched them with my ring-adorned hand. Now I definitely didn’t recognize myself. Not in the slightest. It felt like I was playing a character—someone so much more interesting than the real me.

Aurelia looked less convinced though. She tilted her head, deliberating. “I think . . . no necklace,” she said, delivering a verdict.

I looked down at my small, glinting angel wing, which seemed so insignificant beside the canary diamond earrings and ring. But I couldn’t take it off. For whatever reason, according to the book, I was supposed to wear this always.

“I kind of like it. I think it all, um, works.” I tried to sound fashion savvy, but didn’t quite have the forthrightness to pull it off.

“No necklace,” she said again, more firmly. I took it off and tucked it into the evening bag. “But I will make a trade: perhaps a bracelet, a quiet accent?” I stood still as she rummaged through that jewelry box again, returning with a thin gold bangle. “Now, this is very special and has been with me for years and years.” She grabbed my hand and squeezed the narrow bangle on. It fit snug around my wrist and had the faintest heart-shaped etchings. “It’s modeled after that famous, very expensive bracelet that you need a special screwdriver to get on and off, do you know the one?”

I shook my head. How would I know these things?

“Well, I desperately wanted one and so someone had this one made for me.” She spoke so easily now, directly addressing this bracelet on my wrist, that it seemed she forgot she was talking and not just thinking this. I didn’t want to break her trance so I remained quiet, hoping she would go on, and she did. “It was always my favorite. He was a nice man. I probably should have given it back to him when . . .” She trailed off. “But I just couldn’t. It’s not like he would have given it to anyone else, but still.” She shook herself out of it. “He still has the screwdriver, unfortunately, so it’s a good thing your hands are small like mine or we’d never get it on or off.”

“Were you in love with him then?” I couldn’t help asking. There was so much I wanted to know about her. But the window had closed.

“Of course. At that age you’re in love all the time.” She brushed it off, typically harsh, back to normal. I didn’t understand what she meant. What age? This couldn’t have been so long ago. “You probably fall in love a million times every day.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond to this; she sounded unsettled now, like she had been woken up in the middle of a strange dream.

“You’re ready,” she said without looking at me, straightening up the compacts open on the vanity. “I’ll meet you in the lobby, beneath the chandelier.”

As soon as I left her room, I took the necklace out again and looped it around my wrist beside the other bracelet. I could get it around three times and it didn’t look half bad. Through the skylight the stars twinkled and the lights of the chandelier cast a heavenly glow on the lobby below, where ’20s costumed guests mingled, sipping drinks. In the center, a jazz band roused passersby with the pep and spring of an old standard, something you could picture people doing the Charleston to. As I waited for the elevator, I turned the bangle around my wrist. When I did, I felt some etchings on the
inside
of it. I wiggled it off, too curious not to. Inside it was engraved “All my love, N.” I jammed it back onto my wrist, feeling like I’d trespassed in some way, as the elevator opened.

It stopped at a few floors, picking up guests on the way down. A dolled-up couple got in on the seventh floor, hitting the button for the mezzanine—the woman, in a floor-length black evening gown, pawed through her bag in search of something, not giving me so much as a passing glance. But the tuxedoed man, in his mid- or maybe late forties, but handsome and distinguished, looked me up and down and gave me the slightest smile.

I looked away, but still, I followed them out on the mezzanine level, deciding a detour wouldn’t hurt. I just had to see the ballroom. The pair peeled off, collecting their place card from a long flower-adorned table. I weaved through the crowd and poked my head into the room: round tables with towering black and white centerpieces had been set surrounding a dance floor with yet another band. The black tie dinner-dance was just getting under way. The lights were dim and the crowd already raucous, laughing and drinking. A few people were already dancing, while many of the others sat patiently as waiters flew out from a back door bearing trays with plates full of leafy salads. This room would house the most famous and well-heeled guests—the ones who weren’t required to dress in period costume like the partygoers in the Parlor, Capone, the gallery, and the Vault. I could already recognize several faces from the newspapers and evening news. I had never been in such close proximity to so many prominent people. I couldn’t resist feeling at least a tiny bit important by association.

True to her word, Aurelia introduced me to everyone: presidents of the city’s best universities; Chicago’s football, baseball, and basketball stars; local artists and fashion designers and musicians; journalists and news anchors; endless city council members; the mayor. She referred to me as her “star assistant and greatest asset.” I didn’t quite know what I’d done to deserve the attention, but I soaked it in, letting it wash over me, feeling this power of hers by proxy. Everyone smiled at me because they smiled at her. They wanted to know me because I was squired around by her. It made my head spin. The night seemed orchestrated to make me feel at the center of the universe.

She had even dressed me to look like a darker-haired, shorter version of herself. Her dress was just a step up in degree of dazzle from mine: more low-cut and gold beads woven in with the black. Her heels were a bit strappier and higher, and she completed the look with a headband and a black feather poking up into the air, the plume making it easy to tell at all times where she was. I did my best not to ruin the effect of my look by tugging at the top of my dress too much, but I couldn’t help it—I felt so conscious of its movement as I walked, so sure it would shift and these unsightly horrors would peek out for all of Chicago to see. It did, at least, have the effect of making me hold my posture and walk more slowly, looking directly in front of me, not at the ground as I often did.

We had met, it seemed, nearly every guest when we stepped into the gallery. It was filled with ’20s attired revelers, all perusing at the work and chattering with one another about symbolism and style, heady conversations that I could have eavesdropped on all night. A silent thrill shot through me as I watched them all taking in the mural Lance and I had finished and studying my photos with such attention that suggested there was depth and value there.

Just inside the gallery, a man stood perched not far from the bar, sipping an amber drink and taking in the scene unfolding before him. Dashing in a way that made him seem like part of the artwork itself, he wore a tuxedo and did so exceedingly well. He seemed a bit like an older, taller version of Lucian. He had that same slicked-back hair and those sharply drawn features, but a stronger presence—he looked at the place like he owned it and had simply allowed everyone else to be there. You could feel his strength even in how he gripped his glass or the unwavering way he watched everyone move about him.

Aurelia’s eyes met his instantly and she floated over to him, me trailing behind.

“So you made it after all,” she said as he pulled her in, kissing her on the lips. I looked away for just a moment, but not before seeing enough to try to read into it: the kiss seemed familiar, in the way of a European greeting for him, but the tilt of her head suggested it might mean something deeper for her. I couldn’t imagine ever greeting anyone who was anything less than a confirmed significant other with a kiss on the lips. I would love to be the kind of girl who could do this as if it was no big deal, because there was something so powerful about it, but I wasn’t sure that would ever really be me.

“I promised. You know how I am when I give my word.” His voice was impossibly deep and yet so soft, almost a whisper.

“This is true,” she said.

“And who is this?” he asked, fixing his eyes—piercing, such a clear blue, it was like I could see straight through them—on me.

“This is the future of the Lexington Hotel, Haven Terra,” she introduced me, so grandly I was unsure if she was kidding. The man’s stare, like Lucian’s, heated me to a boil. I felt myself flush. I held my hand out to shake his, so firm and smooth—so very hot.

“Hello, Haven.”

“So nice to meet you,” I managed.

“You look lovely.”

“Thank you.”

“Are you enjoying yourself?”

“Yes, very much. It’s a beautiful night and a beautiful hotel. I’ve been learning so much here.”

“I’m sure you have.”

Aurelia looked at me now. “She’s met everyone, so now I think I can set her free for the evening. She’s still got to get to the Vault to take some photos.”

“Oh . . .”

“Go on, enjoy. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

“Thank you,” I said to her, almost bowing for some reason. “Nice to meet you,” I said to the man again. Only after I drifted away did it occur to me that I hadn’t gotten his name—I had been a little too overwhelmed to think of asking. He certainly looked like he might be some actor in from Hollywood to film something in town, but he wasn’t anyone I completely recognized; he only seemed like someone I—or everyone—ought to know of.

I caught sight of a uniform-clad Lance through the crowd, standing off near the case shielding Capone’s old fedora. He held a tray bearing two shot glasses of a flaming liquid: miniature versions of whatever I’d had on my birthday.

“Pretty good party, huh?” I said as I neared him.

“If you and I both take one of these,” he said toward me while still looking at incoming traffic, hoping to give away his drinks, “I can be done for the night.”

I picked both up. “Done and done. Go get rid of that thing.”

“Thanks. Right back,” he said scurrying off with his empty tray.

We meet again,
I thought holding up one of the small glasses for a closer look. I stood there quietly pretending to look at the fedora, but really watching these two little flames burn. In no time Lance returned, pulling one of the shot glasses from my hands.

“Thanks,” he said. He glanced at the drink. “Do we dare?”

“I don’t know. I had a lot of trouble with this thing’s big brother. Fool me once, shame on you but . . .”

“Ohhh, yeah.” He remembered all too well. “So how’d you get outta wearing the uniform? No fair.”

“Don’t blame me, Aurelia did this.”

“You look nice,” he mumbled, eyes darting away.