“That’s tactful of you, but I’m not finished,” said the Grafter, sounding amused as she sprayed the dress lightly with perfume. She turned to regard herself in the mirror and ran a gentle finger down her side, stroking the fabric. It drew itself up against her, tightening and holding its shape. Felicity gasped in surprise.
For the next few minutes, Leliefeld sculpted the gown around herself. She drew it in at her bust and waist, tightened the folds around her middle, and corrected the fall of the cloth to the floor. The cloth contracted with a faint whispering sound. When she was finished, the dress looked as if it had been designed specifically for her. The material pooled slightly around her feet, curving a little behind her like liquid. Combined with the faint lavender powder she had dusted on her skin earlier, it was beautifully exotic.
“That’s amazing,” said Felicity weakly. “So... it’s alive?”
“Yes,” said Leliefeld cheerfully. Felicity’s stomach turned over at the idea. Suddenly, she had an overpowering urge to wash her hands.
“And it just responds to your touch?” she asked. The Grafter nodded proudly. “But how does it know when to stop? What if someone brushes against you at the party?” Would it fall off if someone hugged you? Would it crush you if you stepped on the hem?
“I just put it to sleep,” said Leliefeld. She picked up a different perfume bottle and sprayed a tiny amount onto the base of her gown. “The dress will hold its shape, but it won’t react to any more input until I wake it up. Oh, except it automatically absorbs wine stains, which is very handy.” She turned around slowly. “Are there any loose folds? It’s always hard to tell right at the back.”
“No, it looks beautiful,” said Felicity truthfully.
“Thank you,” said Leliefeld. “Now, let’s get you into yours.” Felicity froze for a moment, absolutely appalled at the idea but trapped by the unbreakable manacles of Good Manners.
The gown felt like cool silk and closed snugly around Felicity’s chest, and she was reminded of an ill-advised hens’ night when they’d all worn corsets. Not uncomfortable, exactly, but certainly not something you could relax in. Leliefeld regarded her thoughtfully for a moment and then stepped forward and sprayed the dress with the first perfume.
“Read nothing into this,” said the Grafter, and she drew a finger briskly across Felicity’s bust and then back under. At her touch, the material gathered itself up, supporting and restraining. It occurred to a shamefully ungrateful part of Felicity’s mind that, if Leliefeld wanted to, she need merely flick her wrist, and the gown would clench about the Pawn and crush her to death. For all Felicity knew, it might then soak up all the blood and hoover up the bones.
Of course, nothing of the sort happened, and Leliefeld fussed around Felicity for a few more minutes. She drew out billows and cinched in folds. “You’d better put on your shoes,” the Grafter said, “so I can fix the hem.” A pair of high heels had been sent along with the Blue Dress of Despair, but Felicity did not bother opening the box, opting for a pair of well-broken-in Kevlar-toed work boots.
“Seriously?” asked Leliefeld.
“Absolutely,” said Felicity. “I haven’t worn heels in a year except at Ascot, and it was agony.” Besides, I want to be able to kick hard if anything happens. “Can you make this work?”
“Sure,” said Leliefeld and drew the hem of the gown a little lower to conceal the boots. She then sprayed the garment with the sleep-inducing scent. At last the two of them looked in the mirror. It was remarkable. Although their dresses had begun identical, they were now completely different in color and form.
“Not bad,” said Leliefeld, pleased.
“Not bad at all,” agreed Felicity. “Thanks.” She realized that she felt at ease — more so than she could recently remember being. Unconsciously, she’d been unclenching her powers, letting down the barriers she usually kept up. Because the dress was alive, she didn’t need to worry about getting caught up in its history. What an amazing thing. She absently stroked the skirt and was startled when the faintest of vibrations trembled through the material. It was so gentle that the cloth didn’t move, but she felt it on her skin.
“Is it purring?” she asked Leliefeld.
“It likes you.”
A knock at the door proved to be Alessio announcing that the hairdresser had arrived. A woman in her thirties, she went into raptures over both of them. She worked quickly and did a nice job of arranging their hair into flattering styles. Leliefeld tipped the woman a generous amount, and Felicity tipped her absolutely nothing except an embarrassed smile because she did not have any money, only a corporate credit card.
Alessio was wearing a normal, nonliving tuxedo of which he was extremely proud. Leliefeld and Felicity duly complimented him on it. Just then a Checquy guard knocked and advised them that their car was waiting in the basement parking lot. Feeling very smart indeed, the three of them set off.
42
When the car arrived at Apex House, the two Grafters and the Pawn looked up in fascination. Multicolored lights illuminated the building, with patterns projected onto the surfaces so that one moment it looked as if it were covered in glowing Byzantine mosaics and the next as if it were blanketed with snow.
“Lovely, but it’s not very discreet,” remarked Leliefeld.
“I expect the public think it’s art,” said Felicity. “There will probably be a cranky letter or two in the Times about a frivolous waste of taxpayer money.” They disembarked and walked through the front doors. The lobby was quiet; there were guards at the desks, but they waved the three of them through.
Felicity knew that the limousines carrying the Grafter delegation had been carefully staggered so that the guests would enter only in small groups. Rook Thomas would scan each individual, checking to see if anyone was wearing someone else’s face. Felicity looked around curiously for the Rook but saw no trace of her.
She must be tucked away somewhere by the entrance, Felicity mused. Perhaps in some hidey-hole. It was common knowledge in the Checquy that Apex House had been designed to be a fortress as much as an office, and the building was presumed to possess a multitude of hidden features. The murder-holes in the ceiling, cunningly concealed, were always pointed out to visiting students from the Estate.
In the atrium, the massive central doors stood open, welcoming them into the heart of the building. They proceeded through them and walked along a grand corridor until they came to a shallow flight of broad steps leading down to the assembly hall. Music and chatter floated up to them.
On either side of the doors were four soldiers of the Barghests standing at attention in their dress uniform of crimson and white plate armor. They bore no arms, and as was the custom, their hands were ungloved.
“Do we need to stop?” asked Leliefeld uncertainly. Alessio’s eyes were wide as he regarded the forbidding warriors.
“Nah,” said one of them, his Cockney accent echoing out from behind his visor. “It’s just tradition to have us here. Go on in, have a nice time at the party.”
“You might sneak us out some hors d’oeuvres, though, if you get the chance,” said another one in a thick Scottish accent.
A nice time? thought Felicity grimly. Please. She looked out on the huge hall with its ceiling of curved golden wood. The far wall was a massive curtain of glass that revealed the carefully cultivated gardens beyond. The room was filled with beautifully dressed people. At one side, an orchestra played by a dance floor on which couples had already gathered. The rest of the room was filled with guests moving about and conversing. It’s like walking down the steps into hell.
As they descended the stairs, a rustle went through the crowd, and dozens of faces turned to stare at them.
“Why are they looking at us like that?” said Felicity out of the corner of her mouth.
“Well, I’m hoping they’re staring at you because you’re gorgeous,” said Leliefeld in low tones. “I have a bad feeling, though, that they’re staring at me with the expectation that I’ll fall flat on my face again.”