“Twenty-three hours under the knife,” mused the Grafter.
“That’s a lot of surgery.”
“You get used to it. I had my first major surgeries when I was eighteen.” She pointed at her face. “The new lenses put into my eyes and modifications to my facial muscles and my skin.”
“So that’s not your face?” blurted Felicity.
“No, it is my face,” said the Grafter firmly. “Just with some alterations behind the scenes.” She set about blending the foundation across her cheeks and down onto her chest and shoulders. “My friends and I used to work out modifications for each other, do each other’s surgeries, but they were almost always minor cosmetic things, one-offs for an evening.” She sounded amused by the memories, but Felicity’s flesh crawled at the thought.
“Oh, and Pim gave me these,” Leliefeld said, holding up her hands. Two sharp bone barbs slid out of her wrists. Christ! thought Felicity. “Birthday present. Although we all got them.” She regarded them for a moment, and then they withdrew back into her skin. Felicity couldn’t even see a mark where they had been.
“Anyway, I was scheduled for the next round of major modifications, but then my — then the Antagonists broke away.” Leliefeld kept up the blending, but now her voice had gone flat, unemotional. She finished the foundation and opened up a pot of powder that caught Felicity’s eye.
“That’s an unusual color for face powder, isn’t it?” asked Felicity uncertainly.
“It’s lavender,” said Leliefeld. “My friend Saskia picked it out for me months ago for the Carnevale di Viareggio.” She closed her eyes for a moment and put her hands flat on the dressing table. Then she opened her eyes and resumed laying out the cosmetics. “Like the woman in Sargent’s painting Portrait of Madame X. The only thing is, it needs to go over the right color of skin.” She stared into the mirror and frowned. Her skin grew a fraction paler through the foundation, and she began dusting the powder over herself.
“If you can change your skin, then why are you using makeup?” asked Felicity, curious despite herself. It must be very convenient to have an Etch A Sketch for a face, she thought.
“It’s a formal occasion.” Leliefeld shrugged. “My mother always says if you’re going to a fancy event, you go fancy. It’s good to be seen as making an effort.” She nodded at the makeup case. “You’re welcome to use anything you like in there, by the way.” Felicity felt her face freeze. “Don’t worry,” the Grafter assured her. “They’re all normal commercial cosmetics. Nothing biological. Not even any Botox.”
“I suppose I’d better,” said Felicity unwillingly. “I just don’t normally wear makeup.”
“Well, you don’t need it,” said the Grafter. “You have that great English skin. If you need any help...”
“They taught us how to do it,” said Felicity firmly. It was right after jujitsu class and right before algebra. Not wanting to appear too done up — she was only a Pawn, after all, and it wouldn’t be appropriate for her to try to look on the same level as her protectee — Felicity quickly brushed on some blush and lip gloss.
Once Leliefeld had applied her more elaborate makeup, she went to the closet and produced two long dress bags. She unzipped the coverings and seemed a little shy as she held up the gowns for inspection. Felicity peered at them and wondered if there was a way she could justify going back to the Blue Dress of Despair.
It was not immediately apparent what the dresses were supposed to look like, but a first glance revealed various problems. To begin with, they were identical, which sent a somewhat disquieting message. Deep purple, the garments had no specific shape and seemed to slump morosely from the hangers with far too much material. Admittedly, the cloth was beautiful, with a texture that cried out to be touched, but...
When she said complicated, I thought they would look nice, thought Felicity. Or at least that they would look like dresses. These look like the winding sheets of morbidly obese fashion editors.
“You want to wear purple?” asked Felicity in surprise, interrupting her own train of thought.
“No, but — you don’t like purple?” asked Leliefeld.
“Well,” said Felicity. “Um.” She pursed her lips and tried to think of a tactful explanation. “The thing is, we don’t normally wear purple in the Checquy. It’s reserved for the livery of the personal staff of the Court members.”
“I see,” said the Grafter. “I think I remember something about that.”
“But I’m sure it’ll be fine,” said Felicity hurriedly. Crap, I’ve just rubbished her party dress, she thought. An hour before we’re supposed to leave.
“It definitely won’t do,” said Leliefeld decidedly. From the little fridge, she took out a polished wooden case that looked as if it contained the world’s nicest electric toothbrush or possibly the world’s nicest vibrator. Instead, it contained two rows of tiny glass vials nestled in velvet and a slim hypodermic needle made of brass and glass.
What the hell? thought Felicity, taking a step back. Odette drew a few drops of the liquid into the needle and then injected it into a fold of one dress. Dark veins of color spread out from the injection, bleeding throughout the material until the entire garment was a deep, dark, glorious green.
“Better?” Leliefeld asked, and Felicity nodded weakly.
“How did you do that?”
“You mean the colors? Yeah, it’s cool, isn’t it? What color would you like? I can make it whatever you want.”
“But how?”
“The material has chromatophores woven through it,” said Leliefeld. “They’re color-changing cells. We lifted them from a selection of octopuses and cuttlefish.”
“Oh, clever,” said Felicity. I’ll be wearing a cuttlefish? “Um, well, maybe something light, then?” If they had to be wearing the same shapeless dress, at the very least they could be in different colors, and the instructors in Attire at the Estate had always said pastels suited her.
“I have an idea,” said Leliefeld. She spent a few moments filling the hypodermic. Unlike the color for her dress, this one seemed to require extracts from a number of vials. She then shook the syringe hard before injecting it into Felicity’s gown. The reaction this time was different, with ripples of pale green expanding through the fabric. Leliefeld regarded the process, frowning, and in a few places injected more of the solution. Finally, she was satisfied, and the dress was now a soft, delicate sea-foam green. It was nothing Felicity would ever have picked out for herself, but it was lovely. As she watched, the other girl took up a cotton bud, dipped it into one of the vials, and began tracing it over the bodice of the dress. Glittering silver lines appeared in its wake.
“You can do metals.”
“They’re iridophores,” said Leliefeld. “Do you like it? I can do something different if you’d prefer.”
“No, it’s beautiful,” said Felicity, and it was.
“Great. I’ll put mine on first, and then we’ll do yours.” Leliefeld took the dark green dress off the hanger and stepped into it awkwardly. The acreage of material was not easy to navigate through, and she seemed to be having trouble finding the floor. Felicity stepped forward and held some of the cloth out of the way.
Eventually, the Grafter had the dress on, but she was not a prepossessing sight. The garment hung off her in baggy folds and spread out on the floor in drifts of surplus material. It looked like a parachute or a cover for a king-size bed.
“It’s... very flattering,” said Felicity finally. Maybe this is the new look in Belgium.