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I wore twice the cotton in my shoes to prevent bloody blisters and kept my nails short so that I’d never cut myself while dancing. Luckily, menstruation never triggered the magic. Apparently, that kind of bleeding didn’t require healing.
Every time I danced, I played a role. I could step into someone else’s shoes.
I could do this.
“Gracias,” I breathed. It was acquiescence as much as it was gratitude.
Maestra Cecelia beckoned me to her oak wardrobe. “Come try this on. Remember what I said about seducing men?”
Most of what she said after that came in one ear and went out the other. There were too many thoughts bouncing around in my mind—I couldn’t comprehend the gravity of what I was supposed to do. It was equal parts dangerous and exciting. I prayed I made it out unharmed.
Chapter7
Mistress of Disguise
The reflection in my mirror was an illusion. I was wearing a suit Maestra Cecelia had given me moments before she was called away by other business, and a card with golden ink was safely tucked in my pocket. The outfit was made of a soft, matte material, but not overtly sensual like I might’ve expected from some of the statements Cecelia had made. The high band cinched into my waist nicely, while the turtleneck sleeveless sweater framed my jawline in an appealing way. There was a coat that went with it as well, but that was draped on the bed.
Magda stood behind me, helping coif my hair into soft gentle waves that swept around my forehead and crashed against my back. It was a nice sensation to have her fingers twisting and pinning bits of hair. Élites had hairstyles which were much more romantic in comparison to the severe look of the low-sitting buns of Trabajadoras. When she was finished, she stepped to the side so that I could get a good look.
“This is dangerous,” Magda said as she ate her Spanish tortilla. She speared a potato cube, and gestured at me with it. “I thought you said the champion was rude to you? What if he recognizes you and calls for a Guardia?” Her eyes narrowed. She was trying to put together the pieces of my messy story.
Reminding me of the violence which flowed around us.
I leaned toward the mirror and held her gaze while I loaded up my brush with powder. “It’s simple: I don’t want anyone, including Fernando, to get in trouble. No one will know who I am. By going to give Señor Castillas the cuff link, I’m getting ahead of the situation.” I swiped the powder in the crease of my eyelids.
Years of dancing had taught me how to sculpt my face with powders and creams. A delicate gel lined my eyes, and an appropriate amount of blush dusted my cheeks, but my nose looked sharper. My features were elevated, but gentle. It was almost funny how much makeup it took to look this natural, but my face was nothing like what people saw when I performed.
Magda sighed. “Fernando es un pendejo.”
He was an idiot, but no one blamed a bird for being a bird. I hummed and reached for a fake gold necklace. It was a costume piece, but I doubted anyone could tell without inspecting it very closely.
As soon as the clasp was closed, I stepped back from the mirror, pulled on the coat, and inspected the fruits of my labor. Maestra Cecelia’s pale cream suit was a little too loose in the jacket, but the long flowing pants were stunning. They gave my body a soft, curvy shape.
Magda smiled at me, but there was a pronounced sadness under kindness. My gaze drifted back to the mirror.
Behind the smoke and mirrors was a young woman who was too tall, her nose too big, and her front tooth a little too crooked.
My beauty was not the kind that Magda had, which existed with little effort.
Sometimes that hurt, but today wasn’t about my pain, it was about preventing those in my life from it. No one deserved to be subjected to a witch hunt by the Élite. Not an innocent domestic Trabajador, not even a petty thief.
So, it didn’t matter if I was beautiful. It didn’t matter if I felt like a girl playing dress-up with their mother’s clothes. I was doing something important.
“All right,” I said, while smoothing my hands along the front of the coat. The sleeves had long slits on either side, allowing my bare arms to peek out while still maintaining the geometric structure of the shoulders. The material was butter soft. The image of a young Cecelia with a doting lover crossed my mind.
Trabajadores could never wear something like this, let alone afford it. It was strange that she kept it on hand.
Magda stepped toward the door, but her expression had only morphed into an impossible cross between a smile and a frown. “Don’t forget to take the back door, so no one sees you.”
I nodded and picked up the cuff link, weighing it in my hand. So small, so light. This little thing was worth more than my life. More than Fernando’s, than Cecelia’s. It was a sad, sobering thought.
A small drop of hate landed in my heart.
Magda opened the door barely more than a crack and stuck her head out. A second later, she came back in.
“Coast is clear, Carmencita,” she said with a grin.
I walked past her, pausing to kiss her on the cheek before leaving. “Adios,” I whispered.
