Zara gets back late.
The apartment is quiet — no blender whirring in the kitchen. No late-night TV. The white-noise machine that does its best to cover up Kestrel’s snoring is missing, and so is the snoring. It looks like Zara’s roommate has gone out.
Zara doesn’t remember crossing the living room, but here she is, hovering on the line between the common space and Kestrel’s bedroom.
On the subway ride, Zara was still in the soft comedown from standing onstage, Eli’s voice filling the air and her lights warming up Zara’s skin. But now that she’s back in the apartment, alone, her head fills with Kestrel’s screaming. That bright, raking sound.
If Kestrel’s not a safe person to live with, Zara needs to know — doesn’t she?
Zara crosses the threshold. The carpet gives way with a spongy sort of feeling. Zara can see Kestrel’s face plastered on the wall, over and over, a hundred times. This must be her collage. There are cutouts from newspapers and magazines mixed in with old family photos. Hundreds of photos. Some of the Kestrels are dancing, some are singing.
All of them are smiling.
Zara skims through a few drawers in Kestrel’s dresser and finds expensive versions of the usual things — makeup, perfume, stacks of bras in sultry colors and silky fabrics. She would have done much better than Zara at the underwear rehearsal.
The closet is deep, filled with hangers of matched outfits, rows of whimsical shoes. Zara should be jealous, but somewhere deep she knows — this isn’t beauty. Zara’s spent enough time aching for beauty to recognize what isn’t here. There is always an imperfection in beauty, some flaw or surprise to remind you it’s real. Kestrel’s room is a place where imperfection doesn’t exist. It’s a small world of gloss and shine. A spell to keep away the dark.
Zara is so caught up looking at the clothes that she almost trips on something underneath. It’s an old dance bag, a long one with double handles. When Zara tries to lift it, she feels more weight than she expects. It’s an odd, lumpy shape.
The fear that visited her when she was alone in the rehearsal studio comes back. It’s like standing at the edge of the stage again, knowing that something has gone wrong in the darkness just in front of her, but she can’t see it. She can feel it, though: it feels like a body.
These things come in threes.
Zara works the bag out from where it’s wedged, hunts for the zipper. At the first glimpse of what’s inside, she lets go of a breath that’s been curled up in her chest.
It’s a dress form. A cloth torso, covered in Grecian drapery. Not as good as Cosima’s work, but still, it’s lovely. Zara can picture Kestrel in it. Kestrel, speaking Echo’s lines instead of her.
Did Kestrel wear this to auditions, or just in the apartment, alone, as she prepared for a role she thought would be hers? Underneath the dress form are copies of Echo and Ariston, with Echo’s part highlighted. Zara touches everything with cautious hands, as if Kestrel might find her fingerprints on the scripts, or smell her on the delicate white fabric of the dress — but still, she can’t not touch.
Unlike the rest of the room, it is beautiful.
Across the apartment, a lock rattles. Because this is New York, there are four locks on the door, each with a different key — Zara guesses she has about thirty seconds until Kestrel gets the door open. She shoves the dress form down, makes sure the scripts are all back in the bag. Kestrel starts in on the second lock as Zara puts the dance bag back where she found it. A key whines in the third lock, the one that sticks when it turns. Zara runs out of the closet, past Kestrel’s smiling faces, across the living room.
Kestrel’s down to one lock as Zara swings her bedroom door into the frame, then gentles the last inch. She almost trips over her suitcase, packed for Thanksgiving. Zara leaps into the bed, still in her clothes. She pulls the sheets up to her chin.
She thinks about anything but Kestrel.
Echo. Echo. Echo.
The name that used to be her escape now leads her straight back to reality. To the fact that Kestrel wanted this part so badly that she made a shrine to it. And now Kestrel has been forced to live with Zara, the girl who was given the coveted role.
She can hear Kestrel moving through the apartment. Dumping a purse on the floor. Opening the door to her room. Will she notice if something is out of place? Zara feels guilty that she thought Kestrel was dangerous when she was just painfully disappointed. Zara’s dream come true was basically her roommate’s nightmare.
Echo. Echo. Echo.
Her mind slides to a cold memory of the studio. Leopold climbing on top of her. Leopold demanding a perfection she can’t seem to give him. Leopold asking for her full commitment.
Zara thinks her way to the last good thing that happened. Sitting on Eli’s couch in the lighting booth. Standing onstage with Eli looking down at her, drawing Zara’s smile from out of the shadows.
Eli. Eli. Eli.