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Felicity jumps in. “Cecily, this is my cousin, Miss—”
“Nan Washbrad,” Ann says coolly. Felicity and I nearly burst with laughter, for only we realize that that is an anagram of her name, Ann Bradshaw.
The spell is working well for Ann. Cecily seems absolutely enchanted with Felicity’s “older cousin,” as if she were speaking to a duchess.
“Will you be joining us for tea, Miss Washbrad?” she asks, breathlessly.
“I’m afraid I cannot. We’re to see Miss Lily Trimble in Macbeth.”
“I am a great admirer of Miss Trimble’s,” Cecily coos. Liar.
ER EIGHTEEN
“I CAN’T BELIEVE THAT I, ANN BRADSHAW, SHALL SEE LILY Trimble perform her greatest role!”
“Yes, well, you will see her, but not as Ann Bradshaw,” I say, bustling about my dressing table. I try the simple straw hat with a deep green ribbon. It does not make me into a beauty, but it is rather handsome. “I am sorry that you cannot go as yourself, Ann.”
She nods, resigned. “It’s no matter. I shall see her, and that is all I care about.”
“Have you given thought to your illusion?” I ask.
“Oh, yes!” She beams.
“Very well, then. Let’s give this a try, shall we?”
I take Ann’s hands in mine. She’s still got a bit of magic left inside her and it joins with what I’m giving her. Her joy over seeing her idol is contagious. I feel it traveling from my hand to hers and back again, an invisible thread connecting us.
“Go on, then. Make yourself into whomever you like,” I say, smiling. “We’ll wait for you.”
“It will only take a moment!” she says, exulting. Her cheeks are already rosy. “I promise.”
“This will end in misery, I’ve no doubt,” Felicity grumbles when I go downstairs. She’s fumbling with a bow at her neck. I put my hand over it, and it fluffs out, full and pretty.
“You’re the one always saying the magic’s no good unless we can make use of it here,” I say.
“I didn’t mean for little jaunts to the shows and new hats,” she snaps.
“It means the world to Ann.”
“I can’t see how attending a matinee will change her life,” Felicity grouses. “Instead of being a governess, she’ll be a governess who has been to the theater.”
“I don’t know either. But it’s a start,” I say.
“Hello.”
We turn at Ann’s voice, but it isn’t Ann who’s standing on the stairs above us. It is someone else entirely—a Gibson Girl, roughly twenty years of age, with sumptuous dark curls, an upturned nose, and eyes the color of sapphires. There’s no trace of our Ann in this creation. She wears a dress that could be on the cover of La Mode Illustrée. It’s a peach silk confection with black moiré piping and a wide lace collar. The sleeves puff out at her shoulders but taper down the length of her arm. It is topped off by a hat of butterscotch velvet adorned with a single plume. A dainty parasol completes the ensemble.
She poses at the top of the stairs. “How do I look?”
“Simply perfect,” Felicity answers, astonished. “I can’t believe it!”
Ann regards me curiously. “Gemma?”
She’s waiting for my response. It isn’t that she’s not lovely; she is. It’s that she’s no longer Ann. I look for the features I find so comforting in my friend—the pudgy face, the shy smile, and the wary eyes—and they are not there. Ann has been replaced by this strange creature I don’t know.
“You don’t like it,” she says, biting her lip.
I smile. “It’s only that you look so very different.”
