In the corner under the sole window, a tiny mattress held a lump, tangled and covered by a thin sheet. “Is that . . .” Allene began.
“Let’s not wake her up. Come with me. I have something you can change into.” Birdie took Allene’s hand and drew her past the kitchen and opened a door she hadn’t seen before. There were two, actually—but one had a skeleton key in the lock. Birdie opened the lockless door. Inside was a plain, thin bed and a chiffonier that had seen better days, propped up with a pail where a leg was missing. Birdie pulled out a drab gray dress that was creased beyond cure.
“You want me to wear that?”
“If you want to pretend to be my cousin in need of a job and spend a day with me, then yes. Don’t worry, it’s clean.”
Allene raised her eyebrows. Was it worth it? She felt in desperate need of a bath, and all she’d done was step inside Birdie’s world. Part of her itched to uncover that mysterious, sleeping lump in the next room. Surely it was the little sister, right?
Birdie tapped her toe, waiting.
“Very well.” Allene pulled off her gloves and laid them on the bed. “Do what you will with me,” she intoned.
Birdie got to work. She slipped off Allene’s perfectly trimmed hat and unpinned the silken, heavy knot in her hair, so well tamed into perfect curves and twists by Lucy’s expert hands. Birdie let down the shining mass, nearly to Allene’s waist, then braided it simply and knotted it at the base of her neck. A clean but rough handkerchief rubbed off the faint bit of rouge on her cheeks and the saucy pink lipstick that shone on her lips.
As always, Allene stood with her arms akimbo like a doll being dressed—or in this case, undressed. There was no Lucy here or other maid to undress her, so Birdie would have to do. And she did, patiently undoing the rows of covered buttons down her back and slipping the gown off. Allene stepped out of the ring of polished cotton and lace piled on the floor. Now she was in only her corset, tightly laced from hips to under her breasts, where a French brassiere kept her loosely cinched.
Birdie reached to loosen the laces. “You don’t even need this. It’s hard to bend over a bench wearing a corset.”
“Really?”
“Really. No one will notice. And you’re going incognito anyway, aren’t you?”
“You’re my maker today, Birdie, so whatever you choose.”
Birdie carefully loosened the laces of her corset before unlatching the front. Allene took a deep breath and color filled her cheeks. Her cotton chemise still covered her decently, but it was a lovely feeling. She felt as she always did when released from her stays—like she was floating.
Birdie slipped the drab dress over Allene’s head and buttoned her up. It took all of a minute. Shockingly quick. Finally, a pair of plain work shoes were switched for Allene’s silk heels. Birdie looked with satisfaction at her deconstructed doll and pointed to a scratched mirror over the chiffonier.
“There we go. No fuss, no feathers.”
Allene stared at her reflection. It was just her plain self, the one she woke up to alone in the mornings. No embellishments or lies. She peered closer, noticing how the dress hung limply on her shoulders and stray hairs frizzed out from her temples.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake. I’m ugly,” Allene announced.
“No.” Birdie leaned over, her face next to Allene’s as they regarded her reflection. “I think you’re more beautiful like this, to be honest.” She kissed Allene’s cheek, and Allene kept staring at her reflection before shrugging. At least Jasper wouldn’t see her like this.
“Oh, one moment.” Allene fished the Wonderliter from her dress pocket.
“What is that?”
“A cigarette lighter. Isn’t it something? I bought it only last year.” She demonstrated with a flourish, and afterward Birdie smiled at the metal wand’s tiny torch.
“That’s rather adorable! How does it work? Is that flint on the bottom?”
“It’s not flint. It’s ferrocerium. An iron and cerium alloy. Works like flint, though. It has wonderful pyrophoricity.”
“Interesting,” Birdie said, but Allene could tell she was only being polite. Birdie gathered her satchel and Allene reached for her reticule, dropping the Wonderliter inside.
“You won’t need your purse. I have lunch for both of us. You’ll be my guest today. We’ll come back to change you after the day’s done.”
“Just in case. I’d rather,” Allene insisted, so Birdie acquiesced and placed the shining beaded bag inside her own plain satchel, which carried two wrapped sandwiches. Goodness, but they were tiny sandwiches. Was that all that Birdie was accustomed to eating? She literally ate like a bird.
They quietly crept through the main room and headed for the door. When Birdie opened it, a tiny voice broke the silence behind them.
“Whozzat?”
They both spun around. The little girl was sitting up in her cot, a thin chemise covering her spindly frame. Large round eyes of a muddy green color stared at them without a bit of tiredness. She was four, if Allene recalled correctly. For her, children generally fell into three age categories: infants, perpetually in the way, or debut ready. This one was certainly in the middle category.
“Holly.” Birdie kneeled down next to the little girl. “This is my friend, Miss Allene Cutter.”
Holly cocked her head to the side, and Allene had the distinct feeling she was being judged. The girl’s eyes traveled from shopworn shoe up to her frazzled head, as if puzzling why the sky would be violet instead of blue today. Her eyes widened with recognition.
Without so much as a curtsy, she blurted, “Oh. You’re her,” and smiled, showing a gap-toothed grin. “But why are you wearing Birdie’s dress?”
The little girl was less repelling than expected, as far as children went. And yet she managed to disappoint. Any progeny of Hazel Dreyer ought to be incandescently stunning, like Birdie. Holly was more like the species that Allene belonged to—pleasing to the eye, but nothing that kept one’s gaze fixed for the sheer joy of just looking. She immediately felt a kinship to the little girl. After all, she knew what it was to fall in the shadows beside such a bright specimen as Birdie Dreyer.
“Hello, Holly. It’s nice to meet you.” She extended her hand, and Holly ambled forward.
“Where have you been?”
Allene paused. She was always uncomfortable with the non sequiturs of children. Did she mean in the last day? Or in the last four years? Either way, Allene didn’t feel fit to answer. So she replied to a question Holly hadn’t asked. It was what you did when children asked what you didn’t want to answer.
“I’m spending the day with your sister.”
“Will you come play later?”
Birdie interjected. “Never mind that, Holly. Don’t forget we have new jam in the cupboard, and remind Ma to eat too, when she wakes up.”