I suddenly became quite conscious of the fact I looked like a tragic fashion victim. My acid-washed jeans and ratty t-shirt would be appallingly out of place on the stylish streets of Paris.
“That one,” I said, pointing to a red and black day suit with a Peter Pan collar and black bow in the center.
“C’est parfait. I believe there is a matching hat and bag that go with it,” Naomi said.
After thanking the wardrober a second time, I returned to the main room with Felipe. A long debate ensued over whether to cut my hair or just pin it up.
“It will take much time to style it appropriately every day if we do not cut it,” Felipe warned. “A nice bob will be much simpler to maintain.”
“Isn’t that why you’re here?” I teased.
The guise specialist scowled.
“Please,” I begged, sticking out my lower lip in a decent imitation of Gaige’s pouty face.
“Fine, fine,” Felipe relented. “But I will need at least one hour for daytime and two for evening styles, no discussion, no complaining.”
“Deal,” I agreed, grinning.
I was surprised to find it was already lunchtime when Ines brought down finger sandwiches and tea. A tall, serious-looking man followed on her heels.
“Stassi, Gaige, may I introduce Pierre?”
The man nodded curtly at us.
“When you are finished here, see me to take the pictures for your passports, s’il vous plait,” he said, skipping over the pleasantries.
“Will you also be working with us on copying the manuscript?” I asked, gathering he was the alchemist forger for this era.
“Oui. It would be best to provide me with the photos as you find the document, as I will need time to replicate it,” he instructed. “Any other questions?”
When I glanced at Gaige to be sure we were on the same page, he simply shook his head.
“No, not at the moment. Thank you Pierre,” I said.
Before I’d finished speaking, the document specialist gave another nod and strode away.
“It was nice meeting you!” Gaige called after him, drawing a giggle from Ines.
Turning back to the lunch provided, I took a small bite of an odd little sandwich with a single slice of cucumber in the middle. Surprisingly, it was delicious. My partner was popping them in his mouth whole, reminding me that I’d need to go over rules for decorum with him. While we ate, Gaige and I asked Ines about Rosenthal and his circle of friends.
“He’s a strange little man,” Ines said of the author, her French accent becoming more pronounced as she began gossiping. “Secretive and almost paranoid. He speaks to me very little when we bump into one another. In fact, he speaks to very few aside from his writer friends, though he is close to Ernest Hemingway. That might be a good angle; Hemingway’s wife loves meeting new people, particularly Americans. She will be there tonight, and is always at Gertrude Stein’s house on the weekends.”
“Can you handle getting us invited to Stein’s salon on Saturday?” Gaige asked.
Ines looked aghast, as if he’d insulted her character by inquiring about her social connections.
“Of course. I can have you invited absolutely anywhere,” she insisted with a frown. “But be warned—Stein’s wife is an odious woman. She will not like you one bit, Stassi.”
“Why is that?” I asked uneasily.
“Does she hate all goofy looking foreigners?” Gaige chimed in helpfully.
“Que’est-ce que c’est, goofy?” Ines asked, looking puzzled. Even though I wasn’t wearing a translation device, this was a phrase I knew well. Along with the words for “I don’t know”, it was the single most-used phrase in my French vocabulary.
“Nothing, ignore him,” I answered, reaching over to shove my partner’s arm. “I don’t know what the translation would be, but it’s not important.”
“You are much too pretty for her liking,” Ines continued with a shrug. “Moi? I’m mannish, no one gives me a second glance.”
Hearing her self-assessment, I studied Ines with a critical eye. Her black hair was cut short, just above her ears, with blunt bangs that hung straight across her forehead. She was tall, close to Gaige’s height, and angular. Even in a shapeless turquoise dress, it was obvious she was extremely thin. Though she was definitely working the androgynous trend of the twenties, I’d hardly have described her as mannish.
“You’re being modest,” I said, curious as to whether self-deprecation was a sport among the social elite in this era.
Gaige, oblivious as usual, also gave Ines a once-over. He shook his head decisively.
“I wouldn’t say you’re mannish. Skinny. Definitely skinny. But that’s not a bad thing.”
I rolled my eyes. For a guy who spent so much time flirting and talking up women, he didn’t have a clue. It was no wonder he struck out more often than not.
“I apologize for my partner,” I told Ines. “He lacks couth.”
She laughed. “As do so many men. Come now, get changed into your new clothes, and I will show you to your accommodations. You’ll be staying in the townhouse next door, a beautiful home. You both must get lots of rest before this evening.”
“We must?” I asked, wondering if it was her polite way of telling me I looked haggard.
“But of course,” Ines replied. “We all must.”
Gaige and I both stared at her, waiting for an explanation.
“This is Parisian society, Stassi my dear,” Ines finally said slowly. “The parties start quite late in the evening, and this one will go all night. It is a big event, Fitzgerald and his little book are the toast of the town.”
I looked warily at my partner. We were both sleep-deprived, but he didn’t seem to be feeling the effects like me. Gaige looked positively giddy.
“Soon, if I do my job properly, the two of you will be, as well,” Ines continued. “Paris loves nothing more than a good bit of gossip. News of you will spread like wildfire.”
“Best. Run. Ever,” Gaige declared.
I didn’t share my partner’s enthusiasm. A runner’s job was to blend in, and for the first time, we were being asked to do the opposite. We were deliberately drawing attention to ourselves, which inevitably led to heightened scrutiny and unwanted questions. I understood why we were taking the path least traveled, but I didn’t like it.
That ominous feeling about the run that Molly had expressed? I now felt it, too.
“WHAT IS YOUR name, dear?” Ines demanded for the third time.
I squared my shoulders and gave her a determined stare.
“Stassi. Like I’ve said. It’s Stassi.”
“Stassi,” Ines mimicked my American accent. “Stassi is a nickname, not suitable for societal introductions. You are in Paris, not tucked away on Cyrus’s island.”
That was for sure. We were sitting in the living room of the townhouse next to the milliner’s shop, surrounded by opulent furniture, thick Persian rugs, and artwork that would one day be incredibly valuable. The extravagant furnishings went with our cover story as children of a wealthy shipping magnate, but I felt slightly uncomfortable in this environment. Everything in the place looked more suited for a museum. I was almost afraid to touch anything. Gaige didn’t have the same problem. He was draped across a brocade armchair, his legs tossed over the side.
For her part, Ines looked just as comfortable. There was an air about her, as if she herself could afford to live in such a place, despite the fact I knew she couldn’t. Alchemists were well-compensated for their services, but their salary was paltry compared to a runner’s.
I hoped the entitled act was just that—an act. If she were truly as snobby as she came across, the next six weeks would be tedious.
Our Parisian guide gave me a look as though the feeling was mutual and took a long drag from the cigarette she had wedged into a shiny, black cigarette holder. She exhaled a plume of smoke straight into my face, then tapped the end into a crystal ashtray that bore an eerie resemblance to the
candy dish Molly had on her desk at home.
“Anastasia,” Ines said firmly, blowing a perfect O with the last dregs of smoke. “That is fitting, wouldn’t you agree?”
No, I wouldn’t agree, I thought stubbornly, because my name is Stassi.
Of course, I didn’t say that aloud. The elegant French woman was probably correct; Stassi would sound out of place in this time. Truthfully, I just didn’t like her very much.
“Fine, I’ll go by Anastasia,” I relented, reminding myself that I was a professional. “Or Anne or Elizabeth or whatever you say my name should be.”
“Don’t be silly, Pierre already put Anastasia on your papers,” Ines said with a wave of her hand. Irritation at her rose within me, but I tamped it down with several long, deep breaths.
“What about me?” Gaige chimed in. “Did I get a new name?”
“Gaige is a fine name, no need to change it,” Ines said, her voice warmer as she spoke to my partner.
If she had a thing for him, we were going to have a problem.
“Of course,” he said with a lazy grin. “I’m perfect in every single way.”
I had to resist the urge to throw one of the embroidered pillows at his head.
“That is left to be seen,” the alchemist replied, raising one perfectly groomed eyebrow.
Ines crossed her legs and drew on her cigarette again as she studied Gaige. The smoke poured from her nostrils in two streams, mixing with the third stream coming from her lips to form one large cloud. Clad in a mauve dress with an intricately arranged hip-line, plunging neckline, and three-foot train, Ines was stylish and sultry. Somehow, the cigarette only added to her sex appeal.
I glanced down at my own emerald dress. It was one of the many creations Naomi selected for me, citing my new auburn locks as a perfect complement to the jewel tone. The silky velvet material was held at the waist with a crystal motif, and a braided train dangled from my hip.
After Felipe had finished styling my hair for the evening and I’d donned the dress, I’d been feeling good about my appearance. But now that the time had come to actually leave, I was second-guessing my choice.
“Are you ready for your introduction to society?” Ines asked, sparing me a glance.
“So ready,” Gaige said and stood from his seat.
Putting on the fake smile I always used when nervous, I nodded.
“Totally ready.”
“Then let us not waste any more time, my dears. The beautiful people await.”
In a haze of Chanel perfume and tobacco smoke, Ines floated towards the door.
Outside, a beautiful white Rolls-Royce idled beside the curb. Ines waited next to the luxury automobile with an entitled air as the driver scurried to exit the vehicle. Gaige waved him off and held the door open himself, turning to roll his eyes at me while Ines climbed inside. Following suit, I settled into the seat of sumptuous beige leather across from the customs agent. Gaige pulled the door shut behind him, plopping down next to me gracelessly.
“Not bad, not bad,” he declared, looking around the elegant interior. “I could probably get used to this.”
“Good evening,” the driver said, turning to greet us through a window in the divider between the front and back of the vehicle.
“Bon nuit,” Ines replied absently, waving in our direction. “Stassi, Gaige, this is Jacque. He will be at your disposal while you are here.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” I said warmly, compensating for her dismissive attitude.
Ines relayed our destination and instructions for the evening to Jacque, all in French. With the Rosetta securely inside my ear, I was able to understand every word of their brief conversation.
“This is our private car,” Ines said to us once we were underway, as if she’d purchased it herself. “When you have need of Jacque’s services, you simply send word to us or telephone the number on the list I gave you.”
The old-fashioned phone and number system was new to me, having never visited this time before. The ringer was a separate box mounted on the wall beside the receiver. An operator answered when the handset was lifted, connecting callers based on numbers or sometimes addresses. Before leaving, Ines had handed us each a thick card with the information for contacting the townhouse, the milliner’s shop, and our personal driver. It was now tucked securely within my beaded clutch, in case the night took an unexpected turn.
Ines withdrew her silver cigarette case from her purse, then went about lighting her umpteenth cancer stick of the day. I immediately began to turn the crank that opened the windows, filling the car with chilly spring air. After sucking in a deep breath, I nudged Gaige to do the same on his side, much to Ines’s annoyance.
“Non, do not do that, my hair will be a mess before the night even begins,” she protested.
“Your hair looks absolutely perfect,” Gaige insisted with an easy smile. “And the fresh air will liven us all up. It’s already giving your cheeks a lovely flush.”
Ines fell for the bait, forgetting her objections with my partner’s attention.
“How long have you known Rosenthal?” I asked her smoothly, effectively changing the subject. Though we’d discussed the set and players earlier, we hadn’t gotten into the specifics of her relationships within the group.
“A year? Maybe two?” Ines said vaguely, shrugging one bony shoulder. “Long enough for your purposes.”
“And how well would—”
“This corner, yes, right up here, this is perfect,” Ines told the driver loudly in French.
“Are you sure, Miss?” Jacque asked, also in French. “You are still three blocks from your destination. You cannot be too cautious right now.”
Ines laughed. “We are not alone. We have an escort, as you can see. He will protect us.”
Gaige and I exchanged uneasy glances. Protect us from what? As far as we knew, this part of Montparnasse was considered safe.
“As you say, madam, but the Night Gentleman—”
“Is of no consequence to us, I assure you,” Ines interjected.
Still reluctant, Jacque pulled to a stop at the corner Ines indicated.
“Be careful, won’t you?” he asked.
“Now where would be the fun in that?” Ines quipped, one hand already pushing the door open.
Gaige and I followed her out of the car and onto the dimly lit pavement. The moment her feet hit the ground, Ines busied herself replacing the cigarette in her holder. When I glanced up and down the street, there wasn’t a soul in sight, and only the occasional car.
“The evening is much too nice to ride the whole way, don’t you agree?” Ines asked in English, as she joined Gaige and me on the sidewalk.
Jacque had yet to drive away. He was watching our trio, a slight frown on his face.
“Sure,” I said, pulling my fur stole tighter around my shoulders to block the cool night air.
“Who is the Night Gentleman?” Gaige asked as we began our short trek.
Ines inhaled deeply.
“You scoundrel, don’t you know it’s in poor taste to eavesdrop?” she asked with a laugh, as if we hadn’t been sitting a foot away. “Speaking of scoundrels, I do hope Ezra is there tonight, he’s an absolute gas. One never knows what he will do next.”
Gaige caught my eye and a silent message passed between us. She was avoiding the question.
“There was this one time,” Ines continued hurriedly, “we drank champagne until dawn out at his country estate and ended up swimming in a lake as the sun rose. He wrote a short story about that night. The character Rosemarie is based upon me.”
“Right, that definitely sounds like a gas,” I said quickly, cutting her off before the next string of babble burst forth. “So, who is the Night Gentleman? We need to be up on current events.”
“What is it you Americans say?” Ines asked. This time her casual laugh sounded forced. “Something about beating a dead horse?”
“I actually don’t know if that is an Americanism,” Gaige sa
id, scratching his brow as thought he really was considering the origins of the saying.
I rolled my eyes. Ines was definitely evading the question, and not even in a clever way. As Gaige was fond of saying, only sparkly objects distracted me. Our guide’s obvious attempts to redirect attention just made me more curious about the subject.
“I’m not a fan of this horse,” I said dryly.
“Oh, fine. He’s just a man.” Ines took another drag from her cigarette and seemed to contemplate what she’d just said. “Or maybe a woman. No one knows for sure.”
“And what significance does he have?” I persisted.
“Look, I—,” Ines said with a sweep of her arms, cutting off when the end of her cigarette connected with my bare skin. Hot embers flew off to the side, and the sharp sting made me wince.
“Shite, that hurt,” I swore through gritted teeth, rubbing my skin.
“Oh, heavens! Stassi, my dear, I am so sorry,” Ines gushed.
She yanked the half-smoked cigarette from its holder and threw it onto the sidewalk, stamping the lit end with the toe of her gray heels. She took my hand between both of hers and held my arm up towards the closest street lamp. A red blotch was blossoming where the embers hit my skin.
“I’m fine,” I said, snatching my hand back.
“If you are sure, then let us review your cover story one last time,” Ines declared, smiling brightly.
A niggling sensation somewhere in the back of my mind told me that she’d burned me on purpose, as if to distract me from the Night Gentleman topic.
Purposeful or not, it worked. As we traversed the final block to the club, Gaige rattled off our cover story.
We were supposedly in Paris on holiday. Our father was both a champion of modern business and heavily invested in the stock market. The latter would’ve made us dirt poor four years later, but it was a perfect show of wealth in 1925. Prohibition was making our little city too boring, and so we’d departed for a year abroad. Gaige was a supposed arts enthusiast who loved finding hidden gems from undiscovered talents. His hope was that they would one day make him a fortune equal to our father’s.
I was fresh out of school and ready to sow my wild oats far, far away from my overprotective parents. My future plan was either to open an art gallery, write a great novel, or make a career spending my father’s money on philanthropic causes—I hadn’t yet decided. I was to be whimsical and indecisive.
The Syndicate (Timewaves Book 1) Page 10