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Rhea’s lip twitched; I saw it. “It’s better than the previous one.”
“Do I want to know about the previous one?”
“Grecian robes. They weren’t at all practical—Lady Herophile said,” she added, before I got the idea that she might have an opinion on something. “She wrote that she felt like she was in a costume all the time, and when she went out, she either had to wear an all-enveloping cape, or sneak out in normal street wear and break the rules. She was always breaking the rules—until she became Pythia, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Afterward, she was quite a proper Pythia,” she added quickly.
Why did I doubt that? “Her name wouldn’t happen to have been Gertie, would it?”
“Gertrude, yes,” Rhea said, looking surprised that I’d know that.
Cherries. Figured—she’d looked like someone who liked clothes. I got a sudden image of her sneaking out of a window of the Pythian mansion in a Grecian gown, with a pack of normal clothes thrown over her back. I could totally see it.
And I didn’t blame her one bit.
“The 1840s was a long time ago,” I pointed out.
“I—yes. Yes.”
“That looks scratchy,” I added, looking at the lace around the high neckline.
“Sometimes . . .”
I glanced around. There was everything from fringed flapper dresses to buttoned up forties-era coats to wide-legged sixties trousers to even wider-shouldered eighties power suits. And everything in between. Too bad it was all going up in smoke in a week or so.
“Did Agnes have heirs?” I asked, and then wished I hadn’t. Because Rhea had just reached out a hand to touch a glittering purple and gold evening dress, which was brushing the floor beside her.
She abruptly snatched it back.
“It’s yours. Everything is yours,” she told me hurriedly.
I looked at her, a little exasperated. “Would you please stop doing that?”
“Doing . . . what?” Her eyes started darting around, like maybe her body was doing something she wasn’t aware of.
“That,” I told her. “Stop acting like I’m a cross between Attila the Hun and the Second Coming! Or you’re going to be in for a real disappointment.”
“I—I’m not—”
“Because I’m not Agnes, okay? I’m not perfect. I make mistakes—”
“Perfect?”
“—I make a lot of them. And if you keep on jumping every time I do, you’re going to get whiplash or some—”
“Agnes wasn’t perfect,” she blurted out. And then looked appalled, although whether because she’d dared to use a Pythia’s first name or because she’d said something less than complimentary, I didn’t know.
“I meant, in comparison to me,” I clarified.
“In—in comparison to—”
“And if I’m her heir, then you can have whatever you want. So, what do you want?”
Rhea looked like she was trying to keep up, which was crazy since we were only talking about clothes.
“If you could wear whatever you want, what would it be?” I asked impatiently. It was an easy question. Although maybe not for her. She glanced around again, at the bewildering mass of colors and materials and choice. And then her eyes focused on a prim little skirted suit that might as well have been the updated version of the nightgown.
