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“There are plenty of things to hurt yourself on here,” Valery says, but her words are colored with warning. She draws my gown into her hands and waits.
I’ve worn enough of these dresses to know only one thing works under them. Nothing. She drops the dress over my head and I let the straps fall over my hands. The dress slides gracefully into place.
“Lovely,” she says.
“We didn’t talk much,” I say.
Valery pauses and pain flashes across her face. “I know.”
“You didn’t want to,” I accuse lightly.
“No, I didn’t.”
I start to ask her why, but she steps to the side and pulls the rags from my hair, which bounces down into soft curls that fall across my shoulders. I watch her in the mirror. She came because she wanted to do this. She wanted her old life, if only for a moment. She tugs one side of my hair up with a sparkling comb and stops to look at our reflection. I can’t bring myself to smile, but Valery positively glows. We look glamorous and polished. We look like ghosts from Arras.
“Beautiful,” she says with pride in her voice. She places her hand on my shoulder and I’m transported back to another time. Another world. My imagination sketches in Enora where she would have stood in the Coventry.
“Do you miss her?” I whisper.
Her hand falls and her expression changes. She steps away from me, still meeting my eyes in the mirror.
“I don’t want to talk about her with you.”
“So what? You’ve replaced her? With Kincaid?” I challenge.
“I never want to hear you mention Enora again,” Valery snaps. “She’s dead, and you have no right to even think of her.”
“Someone has to,” I accuse. “She tried to help me. She knew what was going to happen to her, that’s why she gave me that digifile.”
“And what did that cost her?” Valery asks. “Helping you, getting you that digifile. Enora trusted too many people, and it destroyed her.”
Enora had revealed her concern, showing her hand by giving me that digifile. Had the person who helped her get it betrayed her to the Guild? It doesn’t matter, because I understand why she did it. “She led me to the truth even after her death, and you don’t care.”
“Caring won’t bring her back. It will only bring us pain,” Valery warns.
“I dream of her—of how I found her. I’ll never stop thinking of Enora,” I say in a determined voice. Valery might dismiss Enora’s memory, but I won’t.
“Don’t worry,” Valery says in a sharp tone. “After a while you’ll stop dreaming.”
But dreams are the least of my concerns. After she leaves, only one thing consumes me: the lilac scar licking up her shoulder. She’s hiding it, and I have a suspicion I know why.
Valery has been altered.
SEVENTEEN
THE CURTAINS RISE AT THE BELLOW OF a trumpet. Three men appear, pointing and crying out as a specter rises in the distance. The ghost’s voice booms out over the theater. I melt into my plush seat, consumed by the action. My heart pounds as the ghost cries for revenge against his murderer.
“Here,” Valery says, pushing a booklet into my lap.
I don’t want to look away from the action, but I flip through the pages to please her. More than ever, I want to make amends with Valery. It’s a program, featuring images of the actors in the play. “Before” and “after” shots. Each actor has been made up as someone else, with a note on which famous film star he or she is portraying. The actors aren’t only playing roles in Shakespeare’s play, they’ve been made to look like actors from the past. The surreality of it isn’t lost on me.
I peer at one of the actress’s images as the scene changes. It’s dark but I’m struck by the subtle changes that have been made, enabling her to look more like a classic film star named Veronica Lake, according to the program. Her hair is longer, waving over her face. Her nose more pert. Lips more full. The differences are pronounced—perhaps too much so to be achieved by a powder brush and eyeliner.
As the next scene begins, Kincaid appears onstage. He sports a trim beard and a black mourning ensemble but the hint of a smile betrays the somber moment. As the ghost’s request for retribution is repeated along with the truth about his murder, my throat swells.
One of the actors clutches his side, where a thin crimson ribbon pours from his ribs. His performance is haunting. Even from where I’m sitting, I see the pain reflected in his eyes. Ophelia goes mad, casting flowers, and I weep for her, the girl locked away and used by Hamlet and Horatio and the king. I weep over Hamlet’s confrontation with his mother.
Kincaid’s age is the only thing that distracts me. He’s too commanding. Too self-assured to play Hamlet. He doesn’t understand his character’s dilemma.
