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For the trip to Venice, I’m fitted into an elaborate gown with a low square neckline, an extremely snug bodice, and an enormous skirt with so much volume, the fabric swishes all around when I move.
I run my hands over the soft silk damask and gaze at my reflection in the mirror, my eyes filling with the sight of my breasts rising like moons. Thanks to the corset, they’re pushed so high, I’m worried they’ll pop right out of the gown. Especially if I’m forced to run for my life like I was in the Paris construct. But Charlotte assures me there’s no need for concern, then orders me to sit so I can try on the shoes.
The silk brocade pumps have small heels, no more than an inch, and a bright blue bow at the vamp that I’m tempted to remove.
“Is there another pair?” I squint toward the wall of shelves where she chose them from among hundreds. “I’m not exactly a fan of the bow.”
I cringe a little when I say it, hoping it didn’t come off as spoiled or high-maintenance. Because honestly, I’m not even sure why I’m making such a big thing about the shoes. I mean, I practically slept in my beat-up old Chucks. And besides, it’s not like I’m actually going anywhere. This is more like an elaborate game of dress-up—or a rehearsal for a high-tech school play. And yet, no matter how hard I try to convince myself to chill, I continue to frown at that ribbon while my breath hectically saws in and out of my lungs. This may seem like make-believe, but I know I’m being tested every step of the way. And even though I aced the last one, that doesn’t mean the same thing will happen this time around.
“They’ll have to do for now,” Charlotte says. “Later, if you make it, you’ll be fitted for your own custom pair.”
“IfI make it?” I repeat, my heart now beating in triple-time as my voice rises to compete with the alarm bells going off in my head. But Charlotte ignores me and continues to hum softly.
Her hands move quickly as she gathers my hair off my neck, gives it a few twists, then pins it high on my head. She stands back, tells me to turn my head, first this way, then that. When she’s satisfied, she instructs me to stand.
“Normally, I’d create something more elaborate. But for these purposes…” She shrugs, gives a little tug at the bodice of my dress, exposing another millimeter of my breasts, which feels like several millimeters too much already. “Sorry,” she says. “But that’s how it’s meant to be worn. Chin up, now. You’ll do fine.” She runs her hands down the front of her own more modest attire.
This time, when I gaze at my reflection, I’m mostly happy with the result. Also, the dress is so long, it’s not like you can even see the bows. Though I am stuck on the way she saidthese purposes. I mean, what exactly arethese purposes, anyway? What is Arthur grooming me for—to snatch famous paintings off the walls of the Louvre? Because what works in a construct will fail in real life.
Or was that simply a test, meant to determine how far I’m willing to go, how much I’ll risk?
And if so, did I pass?
“Everyone’s in place.” Charlotte bows her head and does that strange little curtsy. “Bonne chance,” she whispers as I make my way out of the dressing room and onto the stage where Jago waits.
Dressed in a period costume of knee-length pants, tights, buckled shoes, a long velvet jacket that I think is referred to as a tailcoat, a cream-colored ruffled shirt, and a purple silk cravat looped around his neck, Jago bows before me.
“Mademoiselle,” he says, his gaze roaming the length of my dress. “Might I say you look ravishing.”
This time, when he offers an arm, I take it. I’m pretty sure this is part of the test, and I’m determined to surpass whatever expectation Arthur has set.
Jago leads me past a wooden staircase that leads to a wide platform, then over to the table that, in addition to a jeweled sheath and riding crop, holds two masks—one for me, one for him. He hands me a green mask that glitters with small jewels encrusted along the front, while he chooses a simpler design of shimmering black velvet. Once our masks are secured, I turn to find myself immersed in a magnificent ballroom.
“It’s a masquerade ball!” I whisper, my gaze sweeping past a crowd of masked revelers dressed in elaborate costumes and gowns, while the faint strains of classical music play in the background.
“Not just any ball,” Jago says. “You, my friend, are in the Palazzo Ducale, or Doge’s Palace, whichever you prefer.”
The Doge’s Palace!I flip through the stack of postcard images in my brain, ultimately landing on the majestic gothic masterpiece located in St. Mark’s Square.
“Inside these walls, one hundred and twenty Doges presided over the fate of Venice for nearly one thousand years,” Jago says, leading me deeper into the elegant space.
“I’ve seen pictures of it only from the outside,” I tell him, recalling the magnificent facade I once saw in a luxury travel magazine. “I’m not really familiar with the inside.” I try to maintain my composure as I look around, but there’s so much glittering opulence, it’s like looking through a gold-tinted lens.
Jago laughs. “And you still aren’t. It’s merely a hologram. A good one, but it’s definitely been altered to fit the requirements of this lesson.”
He steers me past a collection of sculptures and paintings by the greatest Renaissance artists, beyond a beautiful golden staircase, and over to the dance floor. “You’ll attend a lot of these,” he says. “As a new Tripper, wearing a mask makes it easier to blend. You’ll know you’ve really made it when you get to show your true face.”
I’m about to pretend I have no idea what he’s talking about when Jago tips his head toward me and, in a low voice, says, “I think we both know you’ve been told what really goes on here at Gray Wolf.”
