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Roxane introduces herself and offers her hand. “You must be Natasha,” she says. “I’ll be directing this particular Trip.”
“Directing?” I walk alongside her. The hall is busy, but no one pays any real notice. “You mean like, a movie?” My head fills with images of cameras, and people snapping clapperboards as they call:Action!Or, Cut!
Roxane laughs. “Well, I did graduate from film school, but this is a bit different, as you’ll soon see.”
After walking a few silent beats, she turns to me. “You nervous?” she asks.
I start to pretend that I’m not, but figuring she’ll easily spot the lie, I say, “Extremely.”
“That’s perfectly normal,” she assures me. “I remember when I was in your shoes, or should I say, in your sweatshirt. My knees were literally shaking with fear.”
“You were a Yellow?”
She peers at me sideways. “Right before I became a Blue.”
“And you still managed to go on to film school?”
“When it was time for me to retire, Arthur paid for my education. And, since opportunities for female directors are so scarce, I returned to Gray Wolf.”
I guess there are other prospects here, outside of being a maid. I can literally feel a wave of relief rolling through me.
“But long before any of that could happen,” she continues, “I had to prove myself. Like you, I didn’t have the best start in life. But when I found myself here, I had nothing to lose. So, I embraced the experience and never looked back. This is a place where dreams can come true, as long as you’re willing to let go of the old idea of who you think you are and remain open to the person you can become.”
She’s paraphrasing the Hamlet quote that popped up on my slab the other day:We know what we are, but know not what we may be.And the way she stands before me, her warm blue gaze beginning to cool, I get the distinct feeling that as kind as she appears, it would be a terrible mistake to get on her bad side.
She hands me over to Charlotte, who fits me into a gown and shoes before escorting me into another room where my face is powdered, my lips rouged, and my hair twisted and pulled into an elaborate updo. Once the primping is finished, I’m positioned before a mirror, and my eyes fill with a vision of me I don’t easily recognize—a me that belongs to another place and time.
My gown is made of a deep blue silk, with a daringly low neckline, a cinched bodice, fitted three-quarter-length sleeves, a long voluminous skirt, and a ridiculous array of bows and lace that serve as more than just decoration; they also make for good hiding places. Strapped to my leg is a small holster that holds the dagger I pray I won’t need.
For the last month, I’ve grown accustomed to the feel of corsets, hoops, cage crinolines, panniers, silk stockings held up by ribbons and ruffled garters, and all the other indignities women were forced to suffer in the pursuit of fashion, beauty, desirability, and upward mobility.
Back then they wore cages to make their bottom halves look enormous. Today we wear Spanx to suck it all in. The pursuit of an impossible aesthetic never ends.
Meanwhile, men just went from short pants to long pants.
But this dress, paired with the towering hair and makeup—well, it reminds me of how I felt wearing the black dress and designer heels when Elodie gave me a makeover. Back then, gazing into that window, I was looking at an aspirational future version of me. Today, I gaze into a mirror that reflects a vision from a past that was never mine to claim—until now.
“What do you think?” Charlotte asks.
“I like it,” I tell her, and when I sneak another look at myself, I realize it’s true. “I feel like I’m in a movie.” I laugh, but she doesn’t return it. Instead, she points to my shoes.
“Not custom.” She shrugs. “But soon. And your talisman?”
“Oh!” I rush toward my bag, hardly able to believe I’d nearly forgotten.
When I show her the necklace Braxton designed, she gently rolls it over her palm. “It’s beautiful,” she says, then goes about removing the gold chain it came with and attaching a velvet ribbon instead. “This is more suitable for the when you are visiting,” she explains as she arranges the charm at my neck.
She moves aside, allowing me to take in my reflection again. The blue of the lapis moon manages to pair beautifully with the rich blue hue of my dress. I take it as a good omen and declare myself ready.
“Good luck, Natasha.” Charlotte grasps both my hands, and even though she’s usually friendly, the sudden burst of warmth still comes as a surprise.
“Merci beaucoup,” I reply. Having spent the last four weeks working on my accent, I’m hoping I nailed it.
She grins, gestures toward the door, and I try not to dwell on the troubling glint that flashed in her gaze as I make my way out.
