“We could switch?” Phoebe offered. “I’d just need to cut the length off that one and add it to mine and—”
“That’s okay,” I told her. “I’ll survive. Who cares?”
I did. I cared. I knew I shouldn’t. I couldn’t stop staring, though the taffeta skirt’s riotous floral pattern seemed specifically designed to scorch the retinas. Silk, in the approximate shade of an overchewed piece of bubblegum, made up the bodice. Added to that, the wads of white and magenta lace that capped each sleeve looked like bandages crusted in old blood.
I averted my eyes. Told myself to stop being ridiculous.
Bigger fish to fry, Walton. Way more balls in the air, or some other worn-out metaphor.
But I was going to a ball.
A freaking ball.
And . . . maybe I just wanted to look pretty? For once.
Phoebe’s eyes had narrowed. They flicked from the gown to me and back again. Hands on her hips, she shook her head.
“No.”
“No what?”
“Just . . . no.” She stood, walked over, and snatched the gown in one hand and yanked me up off the sofa with the other. “No dawdling, Hope, we’ve work to do. Thatta girl. Hurry now. Rock and roll.”
“What exactly are we doing?” I asked as I stumbled along behind her.
“I,” she said, “am playing fairy godmother. And you, my love, are Cinda—?bloody—?rella.” At the door to my bedroom, she stopped and yelled over her shoulder at the guys, “Scissors, stat!”
She made me put it on. When I stepped out from behind the patterned screen, she blew out a long breath.
“Jesus wept.” She covered her mouth in mock—?or maybe real—?dismay.
“Right?” I answered. “But can you really fix it? We don’t have much time.”
She whistled. “What did you do to that stuck-up old croissant, anyway?”
I could only shrug as I moved in front of the full-length mirror. “Oh God, it looks like a wound infection.”
“Hmm.”
My head shot up. I knew that “Hmm.” Phoebe was studying the dress, teeth sunk into her bottom lip. I’d been blown away by my friend’s capabilities under pressure more than a few times.
“The sleeves. They go first.”
I hugged her so tight, she squeaked. “All right, all right. Where are my blasted scissors?”
We ignored Collum’s irritated knocks and Doug’s sporadic time checks. The whole thing took less than thirty minutes. By the time Mac intervened, we were both ready.
Phoebe threw open the bedroom door. “Come in, then, and tell me what you think.”
“It’s a dress, Phee,” Collum snapped as he stalked through. “I don’t give a . . .”
He looked in my direction, and did not finish the thought.
“So it looks okay?” I asked. “She hasn’t let me see it yet.”
Bobbing his head up and down, Collum said, “Aye, you’ll do.”
“Thanks.” I said it with sarcasm, but I didn’t really care. I knew it was better. Anything was better.
“Voilà!” Phoebe pulled off the sheet that she had placed over the mirror.
I blinked at the transformation.
“Whoa,” I said. “You. You are amazing.”
Phoebe had first ripped off the sleeves. At her direction, I’d then removed the topmost petticoat so she could strip off a layer of crinoline. The ivory now swirled in drapes over the flattened skirt, muting the migraine-inducing pattern. After shearing away every thread of lace and extraneous ribbon, only dainty silk now held up the much-lowered bodice.
The design was fresh and delicate. Instead of being overwhelmed by the gaudy ornamentation, my pale skin and dark hair emerged. Ribbons encrusted with seed pearls were threaded through my gathered hair. I turned from side to side, enjoying the tickle as stray curls brushed my now-bare shoulders.
Phoebe smushed in beside me. Her reflection grinning at mine.
“You,” she said, “are going to send the lads to their knees.”
“Not once they get a look at you.”
I wasn’t lying, either. In shimmering tulle that matched her eyes, Phoebe was simply stunning. Auburn hair curled and was swept back with jeweled combs. Silver threads glinted, showing off her curves. She was so vibrant that if anyone thought too hard about it, they’d realize she was playing dress-up. Phoebe MacPherson simply burned too bright for the staid Victorian age.
“Jesus, Coll,” she called as she saw her brother still gaping at me. “Close your mouth, aye? You’ll catch a fly.”
The sun was well set by the time Jonathan Carlyle returned.
“What did you find out, Mr. Carlyle?” Collum asked, before the man had even removed his gloves and shiny top hat.
Jonathan dropped his things on a tabletop and tilted his head at the crystal decanters of liquor grouped on a table nearby. “May I?”
After pouring two fingers’ worth and taking a significant slug, he turned back to us.
“My dear friend Tesla, being of a somewhat recalcitrant nature even at the best of times, was in a state of agitation I have rarely witnessed. He initially refused to be disturbed in any way, barring even my entrance. When he finally allowed me in, I—?I tried to explain how I’d changed my mind about the enhancement. How I’d been deceived as to the motives of the people who brought me the plans. How I regretted having brought them to his notice.”
Jonathan winced. “We, ah . . . we very nearly came to blows over the matter. This, from a man I’ve known for fifteen years. Niko was quite vexed and—?upon my arrival—?was behaving in a manner that could be considered odd, even for him. I do not yet know the source of this distress. The good news, however, is that he shall be in attendance at the ball tonight. Even Nikola Tesla cannot so insult his benefactors as to withdraw from the occasion.” Jonathan shot back the rest of the whiskey. “I have, at least, persuaded him to ride with us, where you shall speak with him at your leisure. He awaits us now.”
Jonathan set the glass down on a small table next to me. From the remains of the drink rose a sharp alcoholic scent. But beneath the sting lay more subtle notes. Peat and smoke and heather. The scent of the Highlands. The back of my throat ached suddenly with missing it . . . with missing home.
“Are all the security measures we set still in place?” Mac asked.
Jonathan nodded. “Yes. Men front and back. Sergeant Peters was grateful to add his skills to the crew we hired. They’ve been apprised only that there is a chance of vandalism, but they are ready for any sort of approach. Though I employed them, even I had difficulty in getting past.”
“And what did you tell him of us?”
Jonathan sighed. His head seemed to sink down into his shoulders, and I could tell that lying to his friend had cost him. “Only that you were old and dear family friends. People I trust beyond measure. And that you are aware of our . . . situation.” Jonathan Carlyle pressed his lips together, obviously reluctant to speak, but unable to stop himself. “But I feel I must ask . . . The fire? All of Niko’s work destroyed? Is it . . . is it truly inevitable? I admit, it pains me greatly to know this and yet be unable to stop it, or even warn my friend.”