The Weight of Feathers

Nicole laughed a curt laugh, neat as her chignon. “I was.” Her fingers searched the pouch’s contents. “Now I keep the books. Dax is my son. So is le cygnon.”


“Who?” Lace asked.

“It’s a nickname. His cousins call him Cluck.”

“Dax and Cluck are brothers?”

The woman laughed again.

Lace bit the knuckle of her forefinger. She hadn’t meant to sound so surprised. They had similar voices, but didn’t look much alike. Though Cluck wasn’t small, his brother’s shadow would have swallowed him whole.

“La vérité sort de la bouche des enfants,” the woman said.

Lace didn’t ask what that meant. If the woman wanted her to know, she’d have said it in English.

Nicole set out Lace’s foundation, concealer, and powder. “This is what you use?”

“It’s what I used to use.”

“And now?”

Lace had tried. The covering up only drew attention, made the burn look like a deep patch of scar tissue. The reddening on her arms would fade. The dead skin would peel back and fall away. But her shoulder had pressed her sleeve hard against her face that night, quickening the reaction. Even once the burn on her cheek healed, it would leave a bad scar, hard to hide.

“It makes it look worse,” she said.

Nicole opened the powder compact, turning it so the mirror caught Lace’s reflection. “Show me what you are doing.”

This was all vinegar, having to be polite to a woman who stared at her marred face. But Lace did it, spread on a good layer of foundation and concealer, finished with powder. Not for Abuela, but for her father and Tía Lora.

Lace set the powder brush down. She lifted her chin to show the woman her face, her right cheek rough and mottled.

“Je comprends,” the woman said. “Now wash your face.”

“Excuse me?” Lace asked.

“I will show you how to fix it.”

“I know how to do makeup.”

“No,” Nicole said. “You know how to do show makeup. It won’t help you with your own. And if you cannot do your own face, how will they trust your hands?”

None of them seemed to mind the night before. They’d all sat down one at a time and let her put on their bases and colors.

“Your work is good for the shows,” Nicole said. “But for you, for daylight, it is too heavy. Wash your face.”

It was easier to do it than argue. Lace scrubbed off the makeup at the downstairs sink, gritting her teeth against the soap.

She came back with her face heat-reddened, and sat down, her thin scarf tied to her arm to hide the feather burn.

Nicole sponged a little foundation over her face, then concealer. She brushed the lightest layer of powder over Lace’s cheeks and forehead, then a little more base, then powder again. “Better to use a light hand many times than a heavy hand once.”

Lace clenched her back teeth to keep from wincing, her skin still raw enough that bristles and foam pads stung.

Nicole swirled blush onto her cheeks, swept on eye shadow with a few flicks of a brush, handed her a lipstick. Lace dabbed it onto her mouth and rubbed her lips together.

Nicole set the compact mirror into Lace’s hands. “Regarde.”

Lace opened her eyes. The coral on her cheeks and lips stood out. Her eyelashes looked pure black against the cream shadow.

The burn on her cheek was still there, still visible. Just fainter, a little discoloration under a veil of sand. In the right light, if Lace wore her hair down, it might go unnoticed. In the dusk and globe lights, she could pass for almost pretty.

“How’d you do that?” Lace asked.

“A light hand, and patience,” Nicole said. “You teach people what to see.”



Ne réveillez pas le chat qui dort.

Don’t wake the cat who sleeps.