Illuminate: A Gilded Wings Novel, Book One

by Aimee Agresti

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Ms. Terra, do you have a previous engagement? Does that date not work for you?” Aurelia said with pure condescension.

  “No, of course not, I just mean . . . that will be here in no time.”

  “Indeed. So you and the other one—”

  “Lance?”

  “Lance, yes, will want to get started today, speaking with your classmates who have anointed themselves in charge, getting the planning begun. Decisions need to be made relatively soon to have everything ordered and prepared.”

  I just nodded, regaining my composure. Before leaving, I tested my nerve once more. There was a question that, if I didn’t know all the secrets I did, I would have had to ask. “One last thing,” I said, on my way out the door. “Just wanted to let you know I’ll continue taking photos of the Vault tonight, since you wanted to keep those current at the front—”

  “NO!” she blurted out, before her usual stoicism could take over. It was the reaction I had expected and I got a thrill out of watching the blood rise to her skin. She looked like she wanted to yell and scream but, of course, she couldn’t. “I don’t think we need you to do that. It was getting too busy on that screen, so we’ve condensed the slide show.”

  “Oh, okay, great,” I said, so innocently. It would be little skewerings like this that would provide light moments to what were sure to be dark days from now on.

  When Lance and I reconvened in our gallery office, I filled him in on my new strategy to try to keep up appearances and he agreed. I didn’t breathe a word about that awful date though—my expiration date. Instead, I just hoped he wouldn’t notice me cringe or tremble as we began planning the prom festivities. He probably wouldn’t since we both had plenty to cringe about on that front. We agreed to each take two of the five schools, and to share the burden of our beloved Evanston High together. Lucian had given him the full packet of all the names and numbers we needed to plan these magical nights. Lance flipped through quickly and groaned.

  I looked up from my writing. “What?”

  “Guess who’s prom chair.”

  “Please don’t make me guess when the payoff is just going to be someone who makes me want to throw up.”

  “The insipid Courtney Samuels.”

  “Ugh. It’s a good thing we’re both handling that one. I couldn’t take it alone.”

  We both shook our heads.

  We spent the rest of the day quietly studying those school files and familiarizing ourselves with the vast array of options available for prom night, from mocktails to main courses.

  Before packing it in, I went to the cabinet that housed the camera—it was, indeed, gone, and all the uploaded photos had been removed from my desktop too. But most terrifying of all: back in my room, I discovered that my own camera, that old one I had brought from home, had gone missing from my backpack. I hadn’t taken it out since I’d arrived here. Someone had to have swiped it.

  Lance and I, being people who appreciated finding order even amid life-threatening chaos, quickly settled into a solid, unassuming routine. Each morning we ate a breakfast of Power Bars and dry cereal stashed in our rooms (along with bottled water and Gatorade). We took our respective meetings with Aurelia and Lucian and then delivered our notes and chocolates, always replacing them with store-bought substitutes first. Before returning to the confines of the hotel, we would treat ourselves to a mammoth lunch fit for a carbo-loading marathoner while we were still out among civilization. We took turns choosing the location, though Lance seemed content to pick Giordano’s for stuffed pizza nearly every time. In the afternoon, we made our calls and sent our e-mails to our peers at the five schools whose proms we were planning, presenting them with all the necessary options for DJ’s, menus, colors, flowers, favors, and then making note of their decisions.

  At night, though, our real work began. Each evening we would go running together through the tunnels below. Back and forth, racing each other and building our speed. Sometimes we would even climb up and down those wooden planks under my closet a couple of times just because we knew it was good for us. It helped that we were so relentlessly competitive with each other, just as we had been with our duels over who knew the most Chicago trivia when we first started at the hotel.

  As the weeks went by, I could feel myself getting stronger, my arms and legs firming up; it would take longer for me to feel wiped out. I saw myself improving at a more rapid clip than when I had been doing this alone. Besides, it was nice to hear footsteps other than mine in those quiet corridors. The sound of our breathing and the squeak of our sneakers as we ran side by side became a most peaceful brand of white noise. And then there were the small rewards—we always ended these sessions with a snack pilfered from the pantry of our favorite bar, never taking so much that anyone would notice. We brought backpacks down to carry our savory treats back up above and we would eat quietly, madly, sitting on the floor of my room, exhausted but proud of ourselves.

  When Lance and I weren’t racing through the hotel’s underbelly, we were off climbing through the winding passageways within its walls. Each night, following our tunnel-sprinting workouts, we would find our way up the ladder in search of secrets. Sometimes, there was nothing to see in Aurelia’s office. But other times, we would hit it just right, eavesdropping on another tête-à-tête with the Prince or the planning of another induction. Lance crouched on that ledge overlooking the ring of fire, transfixed as he watched one of those rituals for the first time. Afterward, we stayed up until dawn talking about what had gone on—or rather, he stayed up talking and I stayed up listening. I got the feeling he just needed to rehash every detail because it had been such a sensory overload: the pomp and circumstance of it all, the slicing of the fingers, the signing of those contracts and the sacrifice of one of their own, escorted back down to the underworld. It was, to be sure, an awful lot to take in. I took solace in knowing that this had all rattled him as much as it had me.

  But there was even more to fear as time went on. The Outfit was expanding like mold. There were so many new souls joining the ranks that we couldn’t begin to keep them all straight. One new Outfit member in particular seemed to be recruited as a replacement for Calliope. Her name was Mirabelle and within the first two weeks of being inducted, she produced no fewer than a dozen paintings, Chicago landmarks deserted and cloaked in darkness, gardens in moonlight haunted by shadowy figures, eerily lit boats along the river. The paintings all shared an unsettling air of mystery that fit seamlessly in among the other gallery works. They went up along that wall that had once held my photos and the gallery reopened to plenty of foot traffic and local acclaim. Mirabelle was quickly trumpeted with write-ups in the Tribune and the local society magazines and on some well-known art blogs too. As soon as a painting would sell, she would have a new one to replace it the next day. Her productivity was both staggering and, of course, humanly impossible.

  Ever since that night in my room, Lucian had kept his distance from me. Occasionally, I would catch him looking over from across the lobby as I passed by, or he might come into the gallery office to give us some bit of prom-related paperwork, but otherwise he kept off my radar. Though I would be lying if I said my ears didn’t still hone in on the sound of his voice—a reflex that would take some time to fully fade.

  The biggest mystery, though, continued to be Dante. He hadn’t yet shown up at the latest induction, which was a relief, nor had he signaled he was ready to take that step by cutting his hair, but it seemed only a matter of time. His only attempt at interaction with me and Lance became the constant stream of food he left for us, three meals a day each, in the fridge in the Parlor kitchen. We would take turns taking out the plates, mashing up the food and making it look like we were eating (putting on a show for any sous-chefs working around us), and then eventually throwing it down the sink or burying it in the trash when they weren’t paying attention. We knew that this wasn’t our Dante trying to hurt us. It was a poisoned version, but our friend was still in there som
ewhere—we just had to find a way to pull him out.

  I didn’t give up trying to talk to him. Once a day I attempted to get to him in the kitchen of Capone, and once a day, I got manhandled by his fellow chefs and thrown out. They never said a word to me. Etan would call over from his station, “He’s busy, come back later.” And then, with firm faces, the few of them would clutch my arms—which now were permanently bruised—to lift me up, my legs scissoring, and drag me away, so strong and swift that there wasn’t even time for me to make a real scene. If Dante had any idea this was going on, he didn’t show it. Whether I snuck into the back of the kitchen or brazenly marched in through the dining room and into the front, he never so much as looked in my direction. It was like he was in some sort of invisible sensory deprivation chamber, where all he did was cook brilliantly and perform for the crowd of diners. Lance and I didn’t know where he was spending the hours when he wasn’t in the kitchen, but we imagined it was with Etan.

  So months went by in this fashion, exhausting months of us settling into our strange, eerie new normal. My book gave me nothing new in these months, no guidance, no warnings of what was to come. I called Joan weekly now, and I e-mailed too, trying to give her the impression that everything was fine, but sometimes it made it worse to hear her voice—it made the clock seem to tick louder and faster. I couldn’t help it. I lived teetering on a shrinking ledge knowing the date would come when I would be forced to fall.

  Part Three

  26. You’re a New Woman

  It was a Saturday at the end of April, and the icy chill that had frozen the ground and air for months was beginning to thaw, ushering in spring and all the dread it promised, when I stood on the sidewalk outside the hotel waiting for Joan. She had been unbelievably patient since that harrowing surprise visit, and now, after I had put her off as long as I possibly could, I had to gird myself to handle all of her questions, all of those typical parental curiosities, in a manner that would somehow not arouse more suspicion. I had to seem completely at ease.

  Lance waited with me outside, making small talk as I kept an eye out for that beloved beat-up Camry. Aurelia had granted me permission to have the afternoon off with a wary look even when I told her I would be spending the day with Joan. Lance, admitting that he didn’t like the idea of being trapped in the hotel all alone all day long, asked for the afternoon off to visit his mom too.

  “Remind me to show you the latest e-mail from Courtney,” he said now, kicking at a rock on the sidewalk. “You won’t believe how many different, incorrect ways she spelled hors d’oeuvres within the span of a single paragraph.”

  “She can’t spell my name either.” It was true. And sometimes she called me Holly. I was suddenly glad not to have been at school these past few months. Although, this was, quite literally, its own form of hell, wasn’t it?

  “How did she get into honors English?”

  “Couldn’t tell ya. I’m surprised she can read at all.”

  “They’re just letting anyone in those classes these days.”

  “There she is,” I said, almost to myself as Joan pulled up in front, waving furiously, happily. I waved back.

  “So, back around eight, you think?” he asked, taking a few steps away. He adjusted his glasses, a giveaway that he was feeling anxious.

  “Probably. You too?”

  He nodded.

  “Sure we can’t give you a ride to the L?”

  “No, I’m good,” he said waving and then, because he was still polite even in his shyness, he leaned down, just enough to see inside the car when I opened the door, and put his hand up in greeting. “Hi there,” he said.

  Joan began talking a mile a minute. “Why hello! You must be Lance, so nice to meet you. You’re welcome to join us. We’re just headed off to the mall.” I rolled my eyes: she always was overzealous when it came to me and friends. Lance just said a shy thank you and walked on, backwards a few steps and then in the direction of the train.

  “See you later,” I said as he cast his eyes away, putting his hands in his pockets.

  Joan threw her arms around me in a bear hug the second I shut the door.

  “Come ’ere, you. Oh, how I’ve missed you!” She kissed me on the cheek. “So, Water Tower Place? I think there ought to be a lovely selection there.”

  “Whatever you say.” I tried to sound excited. She had been hounding me for weeks about how we needed to go shopping for a prom dress before all the good ones were gone, and I had finally acquiesced because, well, why not? I might as well at least be wearing something I liked on that day. The questions came fast as we drove through the bustling sun-streaked streets.

  “So tell me everything. How’s work? Are you eating? Are you sleeping? You look different. Oh, I feel like it’s been ages. I’ve been trying to give you your space, but there were so many times I almost hopped in the car to surprise you again—that spa treatment was just divine. I don’t like how you’ve been sounding, you know. You shouldn’t be that tired.”

  “Oh, wow—” It was a lot to take in at once.

  “So, how’s Dante?” And now the rush of queries stopped, leaving plenty of airtime for me to answer. Unfortunately.

  “Um, he’s doing really well, I think. He’s getting a lot of attention for his work in the restaurant. He’s sort of a big deal,” I answered carefully. I didn’t want to lie but I couldn’t quite tell the truth. “We kind of have different schedules, and he has a bunch of new friends so I don’t see him as much these days. He’s working a lot.”

  “Good for him.” Joan noticed my gloomy expression and said, “Oh, Haven, c’mon now. I know he loves you. Let him have his fun. Ruthie says he’s having such a blast. Be happy for him.”

  “Oh, you talked to her?”

  “Ran into her in the supermarket the other day,” she said as she pulled into a parking garage. “I hope we don’t have to go too far down like last time. Why are all these people up so early to—”

  I cut her off. “What did she say? Ruthie?”

  “Oh, yes, just that he was having a great time and meeting some wonderful people. He sounds very happy. Here we go!” She pulled into a spot.

  I supposed it was reassuring that Dante was, at least, managing to call his mom, despite whatever was going on. But I still wished he was talking to me. We locked up the car and headed in. Joan threw an arm around me as we walked toward the elevator.

  “I know, I know, you aren’t the least bit interested in this, but come on, it’ll be fun. Macy’s, here we come!”

  “I really like this one, honey.” Joan sat beside the three-way mir- ror outside my fitting room. I looked at my reflection in the full-length fuchsia number but I just wasn’t convinced.

  “I don’t think it’s me.”

  “None of these are going to be you, dear, because you don’t wear dresses.”

  “I wear a dress every day now, actually.”

  “Oh, that’s right, your uniform! It’s just darling. I almost didn’t recognize you when I saw you in it that day!”

  “It’s fine. Can I take this off?”

  “It’s very va-va-voom,” she said as a compliment. “Look at this figure! I do believe you’ve got some curves.” She sounded impressed and squeezed my bicep. “Is there a gym there? Have you been lifting everyone’s luggage?”

  “No.” I tugged at the dress. Every garment so far had been hitting me differently than I expected. I was filling them out in a way I wasn’t used to. I guess I hadn’t noticed the change so much because it had been so gradual to me. But where I had been soft or scrawny, I was now firm and strong, with taut, rounded little muscles. I almost didn’t look like me.

  “Okay, okay,” Joan gave in. “I can tell you won’t be comfortable in it.”

  She had taken one of everything off the racks—jewel tones, sexy black numbers, long dresses, short dresses—as I trailed her, giving vague, noncommittal answers to her questions about the color and shape of what I wanted. I was at a loss. I waded through the
sea of gowns of every hue bursting off hooks in my fitting room. I’d already tried and vetoed nearly half of them.

  “There’s got to be something you like in there,” Joan called in through the door.

  I shimmied into another one and took a quick look before I emerged. Well, this wasn’t so bad. I opened the door and stepped out toward the big mirror.

  “Yes, there’s my little angel!” Joan clasped her hands. “Gorgeous, dear, so perfect with your skin tone. I love this!”

  I cocked my head to the side, considering it. Not the worst choice, even though I wouldn’t have expected to like it. I smoothed it out and discovered hidden pockets on the side. I slipped my hands inside and studied myself. An A-line dress in a shimmering metallic pearl shade, cinched in at the waist and hitting above the knee. Oh, and it was strapless, with a sweetheart neckline. This didn’t escape Joan’s notice. I could see her debating internally whether to mention it.

  “It’s neat that it has pockets,” I said. “I sort of like this one.” Even with that scar in full view, nowhere to hide.

  “You should, it’s stunning,” she said, wheels turning and then, gently: “Does the neckline bother you? I know how you feel about that . . .” She trailed off.

  “No, actually.” I looked at myself again. For once, it didn’t seem to matter quite so much. I had so much worse to consider on May 27. The scar wasn’t my favorite thing about myself, and I sure didn’t love the two on my back either, but the dress looked pretty, and it was about time I stopped worrying about things that I couldn’t change. Let people look away if they’re bothered by it. I would never be perfect. I would never be a member of the Outfit. But I looked good. “I like it.”

  Joan nodded, looking at me with eyes curious for an explanation but not wanting to rock the boat. “Good.” She stood up and kissed me on the top of the head. “Then we’ll take it.”