Stealing Infinity, page 15
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.”
“If I 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 said these purposes. I mean, what exactly are these 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.”
51
I look at Jago as though I can’t believe he’d even suggest such a thing. “No one’s told me anything,” I lie, turning toward the virtual party in progress. “I was hoping you’d fill me in.”
Jago lightly jabs his elbow into my waist. “Nice try,” he says. Then, motioning toward the room, he adds, “Seeing as how this is part of your Languages and Cultural Norms exam, I’m thinking we should probably dance.” At his suggestion, the music swells, and I guess he probably senses my hesitation, because he tips his lips to my ear and whispers, “Just follow my lead.”
We join the others on the dance floor, and though I do my best to mimic their moves, I’m so notably awkward, tripping over my own two feet, I hear Keane say, “Braxton, mark her down for lessons in dance and comportment. Jago, move her on to the next part of the construct.”
My shoulders sink. Whatever small bit of confidence I’d managed to gather blows right out of me.
Of course, I’m not cut out for this time. I’m barely cut out for my own time.
But Jago grabs hold of my hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze. “Ignore them,” he says. “You’re doing fine.”
With my hand grasped in his, he leads me up that golden staircase, where I watch several couples push into empty rooms and dark corners. The sounds of muffled laughter and soft moans soon follow.
“What is this, some kind of hologram orgy?” I laugh nervously.
“Shhh,” Jago whispers. “Stay in character. They can hear you.”
By they, he’s referring to our audience. And of course, he’s right. It was an amateur move, and I vow to do better.
This is a construct. I repeat the words in my head like a mantra. I’m on stage. None of this is real—it’s all just—
Next thing I know, Jago sweeps an arm around me, pushes me up against the nearest wall, and buries his face in my neck.
His skin is warm, and he smells really good. But even though he’s undeniably beautiful and charming, and even though I’m well aware this is all strictly for show, I’m still kind of surprised to find that this staged version of making out with Jago isn’t nearly as thrilling as almost making out with Braxton. Because with Jago, there’s literally no attraction. But with Braxton…
“Don’t move.” Jago’s lips brush against the lobe of my ear. “Now, lift your head slowly, and look past my shoulder. Only don’t stare. Keep your lids half drawn, like you’re so overwhelmed with passion, you can barely focus.”
To the best of my ability, I do as he says, but I’m willing to bet I’m not fooling anyone.
“The woman with the black hair, wearing the gown covered in roses. Do you see her?”
I nod, slide my hand to his neck as part of the pretense.
“She’s one of the Doge’s courtesans.”
“One of?”
“There are many, but that’s not your concern. See that pin in her hair—the one shaped like a rose and made of rubies?”
“Yes.” I breathe, but just barely. I know what’s coming next. And even though I also know it’s not real, my racing heart can’t tell the difference anymore between make-believe and the truth.
“You’re going to take it,” Jago tells me, his hand pressing at my waist.
“But…how?” My voice rings so loudly, he covers my mouth with his. But it’s not a kiss. Not even close. It’s more a move to shut me up and save me from my sorry self.
He pulls back ever so slightly, though his hand still clutching my waist feels like a warning. With a gaze equally filled with doubt and encouragement, he releases his hold, pushes me away, and says, “I’m afraid this one is on you.”
52
As I follow the woman in the rose-covered gown, I remember the long-ago weekend I spent at Mason’s, the time his grandma was away. Since it was raining outside, we mostly hung out in his room watching Breakfast at Tiffany’s on repeat, gorging ourselves on tubs of pistachio ice cream, bags of dark chocolates, and swigs from the bottle of cheap sparkling wine that gave us both headaches.
By the time the rain was spent, we were bored, moderately buzzed, and looking for fun. Deciding to recreate a scene from the movie, we walked over to one of those big discount stores—the kind with bright orange signs permanently parked in their windows, claiming Everything Must GO!
Inside, we made straight for the party aisle, where we slipped on a pair of masks—a masquerade one for me, and a Marilyn Monroe face for Mason. Then we dared each other to pocket something remarkably cheesy but truly spectacular, a symbol of our friendship we’d then give to each other.
We took off in separate directions, in search of that one perfect gift. My stomach queasy from too many sweets and an unsteady gait I blamed on the wine, I headed first for the floral and home section, thinking I’d pick up something fun for his room, until I realized that in order to go undetected, I’d have to think on a much smaller scale.
I found my way to cosmetics, but the makeup was so garish, I went over to the jewelry department instead. After sorting through piles of bracelets, rings, and silver necklaces with colorful rhinestone pendants shaped like unicorns and parrots, I settled on a glittering tiara encrusted with crystals, then propped it onto my head and strode right out of the store with no one the wiser.
By the time I reached the designated corner, Mason was already there. I placed the tiara on him, he slid a pink princess crown ring onto my finger, and we laughed all the way back to his house. Neither of us felt the slightest bit guilty for what we had done.
And looking back now, I realize I feel only the slightest twinge of guilt. But even so, I’m quick to remind myself we were just a couple of bored kids looking for fun—the trinkets were cheap, and no one got hurt.
Though I do sometimes wonder what really made me go through with it.
Was it the wine? The sugar high?
Or am I just a natural-born criminal with a talent for theft?
And if so, is Arthur already aware of that?
Is that why he really decided to bring me here?
I follow the woman down a long hallway. When she stops to admire a painting, I figure it’s showtime.
“Saturn Devouring his Son,” I say, one hand motioning toward the canvas depicting the wild-eyed Roman god eating his own son, as the other hand sneaks into her hair, snatches the pin, and slips it into one of the many pockets hidden in the folds of my dress.
A standard spotlight of attention move I learned on a long-ago trip to a magic store. Simply by directing the focus toward the painting, I made sure my target didn’t notice what my other hand was doing.
Remembering what Braxton said about the need to fit in to whatever place and time I find myself, I say, “It’s quite remarkable.” My voice sounds so stilted, so unnatural, but I try again anyway. “And, I might add, quite gruesome, as well.”
“It was never meant for public consumption.” The woman speaks with an accent that’s polished and clipped. “It’s part of a collection referred to as the Black Paintings. The artist, Francisco de Goya, painted this on the plaster wall in his dining room. After his death, it was transferred to canvas. Imagine staring at this while you take all your meals.” She shakes her head, forces an exaggerated shiver. “As for me, I much prefer the one just beside it.” She gestures toward a portrait of two old men leaning over a globe, one praying, the other laughing. The sight of it sends a sudden rush of chills skittering over my flesh.
“Heraclitus,” I breathe, unaware I’ve spoken out loud until the woman turns to face me.
“Along with Democritus,” she says, and it’s only then that I realize the masked woman is Elodie.
53
I stand before her, trying, but failing, not to gape. Between the black wig and posh accent, I had no idea I was talking to Elodie.
And, of course, unlike me, she’s perfectly poised and at ease. And she definitely doesn’t break out of character like I just did.
Then again, Elodie’s a pro at games of deceit.
“Are you familiar with this work?” She nods toward the piece, the haughty tilt of her chin reminding me this is my game to fail.
My hand instantly flutters to the bodice of my dress, fingers nervously picking at a seam, as I force myself to stay calm, to return to the painting. Still, my voice cracks when I say, “A Dutch artist…I think?”
I THINK?
The second I hear myself say it, I’m dragged under by an emotional undertow of shame and defeat.
Why would I end with a question when I know for sure that I’m right?
Why did I leave it to her to decide?
And when will I ever learn that everything with Elodie is a power play, and that I seriously need to stop giving mine away?
Pushing past the roar of my own frantic heartbeat, I swallow hard, set my jaw, and vow to get this scene back on track whatever it takes.
“Yes,” Elodie says, her lips twisting into a close-mouthed grin. “But what I meant was, are you familiar with the deeper meanings of the artist’s intention?”
I smooth a hand down the voluminous skirts of my dress and glance between Elodie and the painting, sure that the plaque above the entry to Gray Wolf, Panta Rhei; the phrase I quoted about the river in the Mona Lisa, you cannot enter the same river twice; and this painting before me all lead back to that same ancient Greek philosopher.
But why—what could it possibly mean?
Elodie snaps her tongue against the roof of her mouth—her version of a ticking clock. I’m about to say something, anything, when Jago appears next to me and secures an arm at my waist.
“My dear,” he says. “I’ve been searching everywhere for you.” The look he gives me is unmistakably flirty, but I’m sure it’s just the role he’s playing. Still, there’s no denying my relief when he tips his head toward Elodie and starts to whisk me away.
“You’ve secured the prize,” he whispers to me. “But you’ve made a grave mistake by overstaying your visit.”
Just when I think I’m free, Elodie shouts, “Hey—somebody stop her! She’s a thief!”
In an instant, Jago releases me. “Good luck,” he says, and quickly moves out of the way.
Frantically, I look all around, searching for a way out, as Elodie continues to scream a slew of accusations at me.
“You’ve got three choices,” Keane hollers, but he fails to include what those might be.
At Elodie’s urging, a crowd of men begins to gather, and as I watch them approach, my mind reels with all the ways I might find a way out of this mess.
I can flee.
I can surrender the jewel.
Or…
I race for the table where we got our masks and, without another thought, grab hold of the worn leather sheath.
“She’s choosing to fight!” one of the instructors cries in disbelief.
54
With a shaky hand, I pull the sword free, only to discover it’s so much longer, sharper, and heavier than I ever expected it to be.
Does that mean it’s real?
Either way, I figure I’ll just swing it around for a bit, enough to ward off the crowd, then maybe grab hold of the riding crop and…and then what? Gallop into a hologram sunset when I’ve never even been on a horse?
I can feel the weight of everyone watching me fail. And the worst part is, I’ve dug myself into a hole so deep, there’s no foreseeable way to save myself.
Next thing I know, Elodie emerges from the crowd. When she stands before me, arms crossed at her chest, lips pushed into her infamous smirk, it’s like the sword takes on a life of its own.
“Jeee-sus!” a voice cries. I think it might’ve been Keane, but there’s no way to be sure. “Someone stop her before…”
I ignore the voice and make my advance. Elodie may have a mob at her back, but from what I can see, I’m the only one armed.
“I’d be careful with that if I were you.” Her voice is tart, showing no signs of fear. “You have no idea how to use it.”
“You sure about that?” With a quick flick of the wrist, I jab the tip to a tender patch of flesh just under her chin. “Looks pretty self-explanatory to me.”
