Then she noticed the scars.
Faint white lines ran down the length of the other woman’s arms, and a pink Y-shaped incision ran down from her shoulders and met between her breasts. A single line emerged from the bottom of her bra and continued to below her belt, a few lines stretching across her stomach. Felicity’s eyes widened, and then she noticed Leliefeld looking at her in the mirror. Blushing furiously, Felicity glanced away.
“Sorry,” she said.
“It’s fine, they are noticeable,” said Leliefeld. She began dotting foundation down the lines and across her chest. “I’m not embarrassed by them,” she said. Thoughtfully, she traced the line running down her chest. “Actually, I’m lucky to have them.”
“Sorry?” said Felicity.
“These are pretty recent,” said Leliefeld. “Marcel put the improvements in right before we came to London. It was a sign that they trusted me.”
“That’s great,” said Felicity in as convincing a manner as she could manage.
“Twenty-three hours under the knife,” mused the Grafter.
“That’s a lot of surgery.”
“You get used to it. I had my first major surgeries when I was eighteen.” She pointed at her face. “The new lenses put into my eyes and modifications to my facial muscles and my skin.”
“So that’s not your face?” blurted Felicity.
“No, it is my face,” said the Grafter firmly. “Just with some alterations behind the scenes.” She set about blending the foundation across her cheeks and down onto her chest and shoulders. “My friends and I used to work out modifications for each other, do each other’s surgeries, but they were almost always minor cosmetic things, one-offs for an evening.” She sounded amused by the memories, but Felicity’s flesh crawled at the thought.
“Oh, and Pim gave me these,” Leliefeld said, holding up her hands. Two sharp bone barbs slid out of her wrists. Christ! thought Felicity. “Birthday present. Although we all got them.” She regarded them for a moment, and then they withdrew back into her skin. Felicity couldn’t even see a mark where they had been.
“Anyway, I was scheduled for the next round of major modifications, but then my—then the Antagonists broke away.” Leliefeld kept up the blending, but now her voice had gone flat, unemotional. She finished the foundation and opened up a pot of powder that caught Felicity’s eye.
“That’s an unusual color for face powder, isn’t it?” asked Felicity uncertainly.
“It’s lavender,” said Leliefeld. “My friend Saskia picked it out for me months ago for the Carnevale di Viareggio.” She closed her eyes for a moment and put her hands flat on the dressing table. Then she opened her eyes and resumed laying out the cosmetics. “Like the woman in Sargent’s painting Portrait of Madame X. The only thing is, it needs to go over the right color of skin.” She stared into the mirror and frowned. Her skin grew a fraction paler through the foundation, and she began dusting the powder over herself.
“If you can change your skin, then why are you using makeup?” asked Felicity, curious despite herself. It must be very convenient to have an Etch A Sketch for a face, she thought.
“It’s a formal occasion.” Leliefeld shrugged. “My mother always says if you’re going to a fancy event, you go fancy. It’s good to be seen as making an effort.” She nodded at the makeup case. “You’re welcome to use anything you like in there, by the way.” Felicity felt her face freeze. “Don’t worry,” the Grafter assured her. “They’re all normal commercial cosmetics. Nothing biological. Not even any Botox.”
“I suppose I’d better,” said Felicity unwillingly. “I just don’t normally wear makeup.”
“Well, you don’t need it,” said the Grafter. “You have that great English skin. If you need any help . . .”
“They taught us how to do it,” said Felicity firmly. It was right after jujitsu class and right before algebra. Not wanting to appear too done up—she was only a Pawn, after all, and it wouldn’t be appropriate for her to try to look on the same level as her protectee—Felicity quickly brushed on some blush and lip gloss.
Once Leliefeld had applied her more elaborate makeup, she went to the closet and produced two long dress bags. She unzipped the coverings and seemed a little shy as she held up the gowns for inspection. Felicity peered at them and wondered if there was a way she could justify going back to the Blue Dress of Despair.
It was not immediately apparent what the dresses were supposed to look like, but a first glance revealed various problems. To begin with, they were identical, which sent a somewhat disquieting message. Deep purple, the garments had no specific shape and seemed to slump morosely from the hangers with far too much material. Admittedly, the cloth was beautiful, with a texture that cried out to be touched, but . . .
When she said complicated, I thought they would look nice, thought Felicity. Or at least that they would look like dresses. These look like the winding sheets of morbidly obese fashion editors.
“You want to wear purple?” asked Felicity in surprise, interrupting her own train of thought.
“No, but—you don’t like purple?” asked Leliefeld.
“Well,” said Felicity. “Um.” She pursed her lips and tried to think of a tactful explanation. “The thing is, we don’t normally wear purple in the Checquy. It’s reserved for the livery of the personal staff of the Court members.”
“I see,” said the Grafter. “I think I remember something about that.”
“But I’m sure it’ll be fine,” said Felicity hurriedly. Crap, I’ve just rubbished her party dress, she thought. An hour before we’re supposed to leave.
“It definitely won’t do,” said Leliefeld decidedly. From the little fridge, she took out a polished wooden case that looked as if it contained the world’s nicest electric toothbrush or possibly the world’s nicest vibrator. Instead, it contained two rows of tiny glass vials nestled in velvet and a slim hypodermic needle made of brass and glass.
What the hell? thought Felicity, taking a step back. Odette drew a few drops of the liquid into the needle and then injected it into a fold of one dress. Dark veins of color spread out from the injection, bleeding throughout the material until the entire garment was a deep, dark, glorious green.
“Better?” Leliefeld asked, and Felicity nodded weakly.
“How did you do that?”
“You mean the colors? Yeah, it’s cool, isn’t it? What color would you like? I can make it whatever you want.”
“But how?”
“The material has chromatophores woven through it,” said Leliefeld. “They’re color-changing cells. We lifted them from a selection of octopuses and cuttlefish.”
“Oh, clever,” said Felicity. I’ll be wearing a cuttlefish? “Um, well, maybe something light, then?” If they had to be wearing the same shapeless dress, at the very least they could be in different colors, and the instructors in Attire at the Estate had always said pastels suited her.
“I have an idea,” said Leliefeld. She spent a few moments filling the hypodermic. Unlike the color for her dress, this one seemed to require extracts from a number of vials. She then shook the syringe hard before injecting it into Felicity’s gown. The reaction this time was different, with ripples of pale green expanding through the fabric. Leliefeld regarded the process, frowning, and in a few places injected more of the solution. Finally, she was satisfied, and the dress was now a soft, delicate sea-foam green. It was nothing Felicity would ever have picked out for herself, but it was lovely. As she watched, the other girl took up a cotton bud, dipped it into one of the vials, and began tracing it over the bodice of the dress. Glittering silver lines appeared in its wake.
“You can do metals.”
“They’re iridophores,” said Leliefeld. “Do you like it? I can do something different if you’d prefer.”
“No, it’s beautiful,” said Felicity, and it was.
“Great. I’ll put mine on first, and then we’ll do yours.” Leliefeld took the dark green dress off th
e hanger and stepped into it awkwardly. The acreage of material was not easy to navigate through, and she seemed to be having trouble finding the floor. Felicity stepped forward and held some of the cloth out of the way.
Eventually, the Grafter had the dress on, but she was not a prepossessing sight. The garment hung off her in baggy folds and spread out on the floor in drifts of surplus material. It looked like a parachute or a cover for a king-size bed.
“It’s . . . very flattering,” said Felicity finally. Maybe this is the new look in Belgium.
“That’s tactful of you, but I’m not finished,” said the Grafter, sounding amused as she sprayed the dress lightly with perfume. She turned to regard herself in the mirror and ran a gentle finger down her side, stroking the fabric. It drew itself up against her, tightening and holding its shape. Felicity gasped in surprise.
For the next few minutes, Leliefeld sculpted the gown around herself. She drew it in at her bust and waist, tightened the folds around her middle, and corrected the fall of the cloth to the floor. The cloth contracted with a faint whispering sound. When she was finished, the dress looked as if it had been designed specifically for her. The material pooled slightly around her feet, curving a little behind her like liquid. Combined with the faint lavender powder she had dusted on her skin earlier, it was beautifully exotic.
“That’s amazing,” said Felicity weakly. “So . . . it’s alive?”
“Yes,” said Leliefeld cheerfully. Felicity’s stomach turned over at the idea. Suddenly, she had an overpowering urge to wash her hands.
“And it just responds to your touch?” she asked. The Grafter nodded proudly. “But how does it know when to stop? What if someone brushes against you at the party?” Would it fall off if someone hugged you? Would it crush you if you stepped on the hem?
“I just put it to sleep,” said Leliefeld. She picked up a different perfume bottle and sprayed a tiny amount onto the base of her gown. “The dress will hold its shape, but it won’t react to any more input until I wake it up. Oh, except it automatically absorbs wine stains, which is very handy.” She turned around slowly. “Are there any loose folds? It’s always hard to tell right at the back.”
“No, it looks beautiful,” said Felicity truthfully.
“Thank you,” said Leliefeld. “Now, let’s get you into yours.” Felicity froze for a moment, absolutely appalled at the idea but trapped by the unbreakable manacles of Good Manners.
The gown felt like cool silk and closed snugly around Felicity’s chest, and she was reminded of an ill-advised hens’ night when they’d all worn corsets. Not uncomfortable, exactly, but certainly not something you could relax in. Leliefeld regarded her thoughtfully for a moment and then stepped forward and sprayed the dress with the first perfume.
“Read nothing into this,” said the Grafter, and she drew a finger briskly across Felicity’s bust and then back under. At her touch, the material gathered itself up, supporting and restraining. It occurred to a shamefully ungrateful part of Felicity’s mind that, if Leliefeld wanted to, she need merely flick her wrist, and the gown would clench about the Pawn and crush her to death. For all Felicity knew, it might then soak up all the blood and hoover up the bones.
Of course, nothing of the sort happened, and Leliefeld fussed around Felicity for a few more minutes. She drew out billows and cinched in folds. “You’d better put on your shoes,” the Grafter said, “so I can fix the hem.” A pair of high heels had been sent along with the Blue Dress of Despair, but Felicity did not bother opening the box, opting for a pair of well-broken-in Kevlar-toed work boots.
“Seriously?” asked Leliefeld.
“Absolutely,” said Felicity. “I haven’t worn heels in a year except at Ascot, and it was agony.” Besides, I want to be able to kick hard if anything happens. “Can you make this work?”
“Sure,” said Leliefeld and drew the hem of the gown a little lower to conceal the boots. She then sprayed the garment with the sleep-inducing scent. At last the two of them looked in the mirror. It was remarkable. Although their dresses had begun identical, they were now completely different in color and form.
“Not bad,” said Leliefeld, pleased.
“Not bad at all,” agreed Felicity. “Thanks.” She realized that she felt at ease—more so than she could recently remember being. Unconsciously, she’d been unclenching her powers, letting down the barriers she usually kept up. Because the dress was alive, she didn’t need to worry about getting caught up in its history. What an amazing thing. She absently stroked the skirt and was startled when the faintest of vibrations trembled through the material. It was so gentle that the cloth didn’t move, but she felt it on her skin.
“Is it purring?” she asked Leliefeld.
“It likes you.”
A knock at the door proved to be Alessio announcing that the hairdresser had arrived. A woman in her thirties, she went into raptures over both of them. She worked quickly and did a nice job of arranging their hair into flattering styles. Leliefeld tipped the woman a generous amount, and Felicity tipped her absolutely nothing except an embarrassed smile because she did not have any money, only a corporate credit card.
Alessio was wearing a normal, nonliving tuxedo of which he was extremely proud. Leliefeld and Felicity duly complimented him on it. Just then a Checquy guard knocked and advised them that their car was waiting in the basement parking lot. Feeling very smart indeed, the three of them set off.
42
When the car arrived at Apex House, the two Grafters and the Pawn looked up in fascination. Multicolored lights illuminated the building, with patterns projected onto the surfaces so that one moment it looked as if it were covered in glowing Byzantine mosaics and the next as if it were blanketed with snow.
“Lovely, but it’s not very discreet,” remarked Leliefeld.
“I expect the public think it’s art,” said Felicity. “There will probably be a cranky letter or two in the Times about a frivolous waste of taxpayer money.” They disembarked and walked through the front doors. The lobby was quiet; there were guards at the desks, but they waved the three of them through.
Felicity knew that the limousines carrying the Grafter delegation had been carefully staggered so that the guests would enter only in small groups. Rook Thomas would scan each individual, checking to see if anyone was wearing someone else’s face. Felicity looked around curiously for the Rook but saw no trace of her.
She must be tucked away somewhere by the entrance, Felicity mused. Perhaps in some hidey-hole. It was common knowledge in the Checquy that Apex House had been designed to be a fortress as much as an office, and the building was presumed to possess a multitude of hidden features. The murder-holes in the ceiling, cunningly concealed, were always pointed out to visiting students from the Estate.
In the atrium, the massive central doors stood open, welcoming them into the heart of the building. They proceeded through them and walked along a grand corridor until they came to a shallow flight of broad steps leading down to the assembly hall. Music and chatter floated up to them.
On either side of the doors were four soldiers of the Barghests standing at attention in their dress uniform of crimson and white plate armor. They bore no arms, and as was the custom, their hands were ungloved.
“Do we need to stop?” asked Leliefeld uncertainly. Alessio’s eyes were wide as he regarded the forbidding warriors.
“Nah,” said one of them, his Cockney accent echoing out from behind his visor. “It’s just tradition to have us here. Go on in, have a nice time at the party.”
“You might sneak us out some hors d’oeuvres, though, if you get the chance,” said another one in a thick Scottish accent.
A nice time? thought Felicity grimly. Please. She looked out on the huge hall with its ceiling of curved golden wood. The far wall was a massive curtain of glass that revealed the carefully cultivated gardens beyond. The room was filled with beautifully dressed people. At one side, an orchestra played by a dance floor on which co
uples had already gathered. The rest of the room was filled with guests moving about and conversing. It’s like walking down the steps into hell.
As they descended the stairs, a rustle went through the crowd, and dozens of faces turned to stare at them.
“Why are they looking at us like that?” said Felicity out of the corner of her mouth.
“Well, I’m hoping they’re staring at you because you’re gorgeous,” said Leliefeld in low tones. “I have a bad feeling, though, that they’re staring at me with the expectation that I’ll fall flat on my face again.”
“You’re both idiots,” said Alessio serenely. “They’re all looking at me in my James Bond tux.”
“How well does this gown deal with sweat?” asked Felicity, who was feeling very damp in the pits and lower back.
“It absorbs it and uses the salts and nutrients to launder itself,” said Leliefeld.
“It will be very clean by the end of this evening, then.”
They were not the first Grafters to arrive, and Felicity noted with interest that the normal orders of precedence had been dropped. She saw Sir Henry talking to a tall man with excellent hair. Lady Farrier was actually out on the dance floor, moving in a slow but stately waltz with a nervous-looking young Pawn whom Felicity recognized as having been in the year behind her at the Estate. She also recognized several of the Grafters who had arrived before them.
“Okay, well, now I suppose we mingle,” said Leliefeld. “Do you see anyone you know?” she asked Felicity hopefully.
“Not really,” said Felicity. “That’s the headmistress of the Estate over there, but she seems quite engaged in conversation with your head of security.”
“Who are all these people?” asked Alessio nervously.
“Mostly high-ranking Checquy,” said Felicity, scanning the crowd. “Heads of departments, some division heads, and chiefs from different regional offices. Quite a few people from the Diplomatic section—your friend Pawn Bannister is right over there.” The Grafter siblings automatically turned to look and received a flat stare from the Pawn.
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