The Weight of Feathers

She woke up scratching at herself, dreaming of rain. Her nails left thread-thin trails of blood, like razor cuts. Waking broke her out of the feeling that the rain was eating through her.

In the morning, Lace found another of Cluck’s feathers. It had settled into the folds of the blanket Clémentine had lent her.

Lace clutched its stem. She turned it, and red streaks showed among the black.

She thought of burning it. Instead, she tucked it into the lining of her suitcase. If she kept the ones she found, collected them, owned a little of this boy, it might give her power over him.

Her back ached as she got dressed, not from the mattress on the trailer floor, but from turning over, trying to find a way to sleep that didn’t hurt her raw skin.

She listened outside the blue and white trailer. Cluck was already throwing things around, fixing costumes. She moved to look through the cracked door. He hunched over a table, trousers on but shirtless, his hair wet. She turned away as soon as she saw his back.

As long as she could help it, she wouldn’t enter the house when he was there. She wouldn’t let him trap her inside like a firefly in a jar. It was dangerous enough being in those walls with any Corbeau.

She let herself in the back door of the house, toothbrush and makeup bag in hand. Clémentine stood at the stove in bare feet, frying an egg. Lace passed behind her.

A woman sat in the heavy-curtained dining room, her posture straight as the lines of her shoulders. She looked around forty, age softly puckering the skin at the corners of her eyes. Her hair was pulled back into a neat bun that looked better fit for a catalog than a schoolroom, but her plain linen dress had the clean, bland shape Lace would expect on a mayor’s wife.

She wrote in a heavy leather book, but did not bend over the page. She kept up straight, as though her dress was embroidered to the chair back.

“You are our new makeup girl,” the woman said, not looking up.

Lace thought of putting down her toothbrush to show respect. She didn’t know who the woman was, but if she kept the books, Lace shouldn’t cross her.

Lace just nodded.

The woman finished writing, and raised her eyes to Lace. She didn’t hide her study of the wine-colored burn on Lace’s cheek, or her uneven eyebrows; adhesive had left them in patches.

The woman’s face, her inspection, asked the question without her having to speak it. You look like this and we should trust you to make us beautiful?

Lace pressed her tongue to the back of her teeth. If she got angry, this woman might hear the sound of her uncles’ zampo?as under her breath, betraying how little she belonged beneath a canopy of glass chimes.

“Makeup doesn’t cure ugly,” Lace said. She took her things toward the downstairs bathroom.

“There are no ugly women,” the woman said. “Only lazy ones.”

Lace stopped, laughing softly. Abuela threw the same quote at her and her cousins, when she pointed out that Lace was getting a little fat, or that Martha’s modest dresses made her look dowdy, or the flare of acne reddening Emilia’s cheek.

Lace turned around. “Helena Rubinstein.”

The woman nodded once. A little light from between curtains crossed her face. “Très bien.” She motioned to a chair. “Come.”

Lace sat down, the chair legs creaking as she shifted her weight. How did the woman’s chair stay so quiet?

The table looked like an estate sale leftover. Once it must have been dark-polished wood, shining like still water. But it had been nicked and dulled so many years, it looked no grander than a wine cork. No wonder the owners left it to be rented out with the house.

“Je m’appelle Nicole,” the woman said.

“Lace.”

So this was Nicole Corbeau, Abuela’s rival.

Nicole reached for Lace’s makeup bag. “Puis-je?” she asked.

Lace nodded. She had nothing to hide in there. Her tail was in her suitcase, locked, and her skirt and blouse covered her scales.

“Are you one of the performers?” Lace asked.