Zara waits as Kestrel tests the heat from a flatiron with her finger. She sways in front of her vanity mirror, her firecracker-red dressing gown swishing against her thighs. Zara begged for help getting ready for the gala and then immediately started to regret it. What if Kestrel sabotages her first public appearance as Echo? Would she go that far — would she try to get rid of Zara if she had the chance?
“I’m so glad we’re doing this,” Kestrel says with an unnatural glow to her smile. Too many white strips.
She puts Zara in the makeup chair and goes to work with an array of steel instruments in tiny sizes. Zara knows what Eli would call them: dollhouse furniture from hell.
She checks her phone.
There are the messages from her parents. They ask the same things over and over again. How is rehearsal? How is the city? Are your boots warm enough? Do you want us to come in for a night? She sends them just enough of a response to let them know she’s not dead, that she’s doing fine.
That, no — she doesn’t want them to visit.
“So, are you going to the gala with anyone?” Kestrel asks, her voice like dragging string in front of a kitten. Zara gets the message and puts her phone down. “Adrian, perhaps?”
“No,” Zara says. She’s spent enough time pressed against Adrian today. She thinks of Meg and Leopold trapped in their kiss/kill moment, and her mind goes slippery with discomfort.
“Aren’t you curious if I’m going with anyone?” Kestrel asks as she swipes something cold onto Zara’s eyelids.
“Oh,” Zara says, picking up her cue. “Do you have a date?” She hopes that Kestrel has someone to go with. Someone to make her happy, after the disappointment of losing Echo. “Who is it?”
Kestrel is swaying, sending her robe back and forth with an electric shimmer. “I can’t tell. It’s a secret.”
Zara’s phone buzzes in her pocket. Her palms are lined with sudden damp, heart doing the clichéd thing that hearts do. Zara knows from movement classes that bodies aren’t natural-born liars. And right now, her body is telling one simple truth.
She’s been waiting to hear from Eli.
Zara waits as Kestrel curls her eyelashes and dabs on a clear gel, then layers it with matte red lipstick. She touches a cold spot of perfume to Zara’s neck. As soon as Kestrel breaks for the walk-in closet, Zara goes for her phone.
It’s Leopold. Zara’s heart pauses for a single, painful second.
You’re going to be glorious tonight, my dear.
Even though it’s just a text, she can hear his voice, the way it caresses the words. He’s decided to be pleasant with her tonight. Doting, even. She’s starting to hate that more than the moments when he’s cruel.
Another message from Leopold.
Where are you?
Zara doesn’t want him to know. It’s ridiculous — she’s staying at Kestrel’s, he’s perfectly aware of that. It’s not like she can hide from him. But she wants to. Her fingers rattle over the buttons as she texts back.
I’m getting ready.
She shoves the phone under her leg, but it goes off again, shuddering into her skin. She looks down. She lights up.
It’s Eli.
Goddamn gala.
Zara rushes to respond.
I was afraid you weren’t coming.
From inside the closet comes muffled shouting. “Do you like A-lines?” Kestrel asks. “Forget it. How do you feel about off-the-shoulder?”
Another text from Eli.
Leopold likes the lanterns slightly more than he hates the lanterns. Must bathe in champagne to celebrate.
Part of Zara is relieved — she wants Eli to be there tonight. Part of her is confused — why is Eli acting like nothing happened, like they’ve simply skipped back in time to before they kissed?
Zara’s phone buzzes again.
Do you think I’ll need a dress?
I’m not in charge of these things but probably yes.
Insert swearing here.
Zara lets out a small breath that should be a laugh. Talking with Eli like this feels good.
But Zara wants more.
When Kestrel emerges from the closet, any worries that Zara had about sabotage are gone. The dress Kestrel holds up is stunning — white silk, sheer at the shoulders, luscious and broad at the hips. It even looks like it might fit. “What do you think?” Kestrel asks, studying it with a critical eye.
Zara is in love.
People expect her not to care about pretty things. She’s not beautiful — she can hear Leopold, telling her that in no uncertain terms — but Zara has always been lit up by pretty words, pretty art, pretty dresses. Her mind skims back to Eli.
Pretty girls.
“Go,” Kestrel says, feeding off Zara’s spike in happiness, pushing the dress into her hands. “Try it on.”
Zara drapes the silk over her arm like a miniature waterfall. She heads for Kestrel’s bathroom — because of course, Kestrel’s room has an en suite bathroom. The tile is cold on her feet as she slips off her jeans and undoes the button-down that Kestrel insisted on so Zara’s makeup wouldn’t smudge. She pulls on the dress — the fabric is smooth, irresistible. It sits on Zara like a better version of her own skin.
She looks at herself in the mirror.
What would her parents think of this girl? She has the same straight nose as their Zara, the same complexion. But her lips spring up like roses, bright red, and her cheeks are perfectly ripe. The white dress sings the praises of her hips, her stomach, her chest — the parts of her body that she usually hides. Zara touches the snow-colored fabric around her middle. She can’t hide anything now. She doesn’t want to.
“Thank you,” she calls out to Kestrel. “The dress is perfect.”
No answer. Kestrel must be changing.
Zara opens the camera on her phone, takes a quick picture, and sends it to her parents. She wants them to see her like this. She wants them to understand. She doesn’t want to put her phone back on the floor with her jeans, so she looks for a spot in the medicine cabinet to set it down.
Something tugs at her vision. Something hiding in plain sight, half-covered on one of the shelves. In the midst of all that lavender and pink and mint green, it’s easy to pick out a single bright-orange prescription bottle.
Xanax.
Zara grabs the bottle and it gives a rattle. She pops the lid; there’s a handful of pills at the bottom, small powder-blue ovals. She can hear Toby’s voice.
Xanax, Oxy — she used to gobble them like cut-rate candy.
Enna was an addict. There’s no reason to think that her death was anything other than a simple overdose. Still, Zara is already doing the math. The prescription count printed on the label is twenty. How many are missing? Five? That can’t be enough to kill a person — right?
She’s still holding the bottle when Kestrel breezes in.
“Ugh. Brilliant.” Kestrel grabs the bottle in a stranglehold. “I know I’m supposed to enjoy these soirees,” she says, twitching a pill onto her palm, “but they make me très stressed. It was better when Mama would come back from Paris or wherever and we would go together. Now she says that I can’t be seen that way. It’s babyish. And going with a secret date is sort of like going with no date at all, since you can barely be seen together. Still, it’s better than nothing, right?” The words pinch at Zara in ways that Kestrel can’t possibly understand. “Anyway, bottoms up.”
Kestrel’s smile is a flashbulb — bright, then gone. She tips her head back and dry-swallows the pill.