PREPARATIONS
1904—St. Louis
The brush felt cool as Julien dabbed the tip of it against Esta’s eyelids, putting the finishing touches on her makeup for the evening.
“Just a bit more,” he said, his tobacco-laced breath fanning over her face as he dabbed once . . . twice . . . “There. Finished.”
She blinked open her eyes and found him looking at her with a satisfied expression. Harte was standing nearby, frowning. “Well?” she asked.
“Perfection,” Julien declared, and then he turned to the mirror to do his own makeup.
Esta came up next to him to check her reflection, and her mouth dropped open. Her skin was too pale, and her lips, which were already big enough, looked enormous painted in the orangey-scarlet that Julien had used. He’d lined her eyes with dramatic sweeps of kohl and had painted the lids with turquoise and gold. Gold.
“I look like a clown,” she told Julien, pushing the long braids of the dark wig she was wearing out of her face.
Actually, she looked like one of the stylized paintings on the Streets of Cairo, but the effect was basically the same. They weren’t any more authentic than she was.
Julien glanced at her in the mirror. “That is entirely the point.”
“To look like some kind of circus freak?” she asked. Her mouth still felt sticky from the paint as she spoke.
“Don’t smear your lips until they’re dry,” he said, ignoring her outrage as he lined his own with a softer shade of red.
“Why do you get to look like a woman while I have to look like a clown?” she asked. He’d done something to make her features look stronger and more angular than usual, while his own makeup had the opposite effect, transforming the masculine lines of his face into something softly feminine.
He glared at her in the mirror. “Because you are a woman. Trust me. No one is going to notice that little fact with your face looking like it is. You look exactly the way you need to look—just like every one of the other men who will be riding on the floats tonight.”
She frowned at herself again and then caught Harte’s eyes in the mirror. He had an expression on his face that looked like a combination of horror and pain. Which meant that the makeup was every bit as bad as she thought.
He hadn’t talked to her since the other day, when they’d argued after the fire, but he was here now. He was going through with things as planned, so she’d won. Somehow, the victory didn’t feel as gratifying as she’d thought it would. She’d say it was just nerves, but she made it a practice not to do nerves, especially not before a job as important and as dangerous as this one.
Letting out a frustrated breath, Esta took some more of the cotton batting and shoved it into the overly large corset she was wearing beneath the flowing white dress. It was ridiculous, flattening herself out only to stuff herself back up again just so she could fill out one of Julien’s gowns. All because women weren’t allowed to actually ride on the parade floats—it was unbecoming or immoral or something. She still didn’t understand how a bunch of half-drunk men dressed as women was any better, but at least their hypocritical morality gave her a way into the parade and, even more important, a way to get close to the necklace.
A knock came on the dressing room door. “Your ride is here,” Sal called.
“Tell them we’ll be there in five,” Julien shouted. Then he pulled on his own wig—a black bob that made him look like Cleopatra—and turned to Esta and Harte. “Well,” he said. “This is it.” He looked nervous. Too nervous.
“Relax, Jules,” Harte said, patting him on the arm. “This is no different from any other show. It’s all a bit of flash and sparkle, and then it’ll be over.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Julien muttered.
He hadn’t been happy to see them when they’d gone to him to tell him that they needed his help again. If they hadn’t been in a crowded restaurant, Esta thought Julien probably would have laid Harte flat out just to get away. But in the end they’d explained their dilemma the best they could—without telling him anything about the Antistasi. If things went to plan, he’d never have to know—and he wouldn’t be in any more danger.
“No one is going to pin this on you, Jules. I promise,” Harte said, his voice as steady as his expression. “Ready, Slim?”
“You can stop with that name anytime now,” Esta said, but the truth was that it helped. The little spark of irritation it inspired grounded her. “See you at the parade.” She tried to give him a smile. Instead of replying, he gave her a terse nod, but his eyes were shaded and his expression was unreadable.
It had been a night not much different from this—and not that long ago—when she and Harte had ridden in an awkward silence to Khafre Hall. Then, she’d planned to betray everyone she had come to admire in New York. She’d had no idea that Harte had plans of his own. He’d been distant that night too, but somehow Harte felt farther from her now than he ever had before—even on that night back in New York when he’d believed her to be the worst kind of traitor.
He’d been pulling back for days now, she admitted to herself. Even before their argument, he’d been holding himself back, and any time they touched or she thought he might move toward her, a look came over him as though it was a mistake—all of it, an enormous mistake. But after the argument they’d had on the banks of the river? The tension between them had been worse.
Esta knew what Harte still thought—that the Antistasi were wrong. That this wasn’t her fight. That she would come to regret her actions. But she didn’t have time for softness or second-guessing, not with so much on the line. Look what had happened by leaving Jack alive. She’d listened to Harte, allowed him to sway her, and the future had changed for the worse. Mageus had suffered for it. No. She wouldn’t be weak. Not now.
Dammit. She let out an angry breath and steeled herself for what was to come. In a matter of a little more than an hour, they would have the necklace and the world would be a different place. They would make it a different place. Or she would die trying.
She gave Harte a sure nod before she followed Julien through the theater and then out to meet the waiting cab. Guardsmen flanked the doors, so she pulled her magic in, clamping down on it as she climbed into the back of the carriage.
But the carriage wasn’t empty as she’d expected. The Veiled Prophet was waiting for them, there in the dark velvety interior, and next to him was Jack.