“That’s my niece.” I’m still coughing, pieces of toast lodged in my throat. “I’ve been looking everywhere for her.”
And all this time she’s been in Sterling. The very last place I would ever expect for Juliet to send her own children.
“I’m sorry—?what?” Larkin says, sipping his coffee. “You’re Juliet’s brother?”
I nod.
He shakes his head. “I didn’t even know she had a brother.”
I clench my jaw. “Juliet never really wanted anyone to know about me.”
Victor looks faintly amused. Then he leans forward. “So why are you looking for the girl, then?” His eyes narrow. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with the Virtues, would it?”
“She has something sentimental I want back. But she might be able to serve more than one purpose.”
A thought nags at me like a hangnail.
My foster mother, Eleanor Cummings, died years ago. And Juliet burned almost every bridge she had in Sterling when she fled.
“Where are the children staying?” I ask carefully.
“At that bootlicker Malcolm Cliffton’s house. He married Matilda. Matilda Fine. You remember them, don’t you? Won’t have anything to do with me. They’re both even more insufferable than they were growing up.”
My heart tightens at the sound of her name, even now. I keep my face vague. “Yes. I think I know who you mean.”
They are the last two people in this world I want to see. The man who stole the Variants. The woman who stole my very own heart.
But I need the Stone before it’s too late for Phineas.
“They’re hosting a big party tonight,” Larkin says. “Too many people. But tomorrow . . .”
I scrape at the dried food with my knife until the plate gleams.
My little red bird, I think. It seems as though fate means to bring us together again, one last time.
Chapter Forty-Seven
I’ve just finished placing the final white slabs of Variant soaps—?the tart brightness of lemon, the softness of lavender—?in the bathrooms for the party when Mrs. Cliffton calls for me, and I follow her voice up the stairs. Miles is coaxing away the last dust bunnies, and Will is helping Genevieve set out rows of thin crystal glasses. The waxed floors shine.
“I have something for you, Aila.” Mrs. Cliffton draws the curtains over the large windows of her bedroom and vanishes into her closet. She appears holding a hanger cloaked in black tissue. “I won’t take offense if you don’t like it,” she says, bringing it forward. I unwrap the sheets one by one to uncover a satin gown dyed a glacial blue. I gingerly touch the tiered chiffon of the skirt and feel my face flush with pleasure.
“Is it all right?” Mrs. Cliffton asks anxiously. “Mr. Finch still had your measurements on hand, so it should fit. But if you don’t like it . . .”
For a moment, my throat closes. I’d been planning to wear an old dress of Beas’s that mostly fit. “It’s beautiful,” I manage to say. “Thank you,” and then I hurry to my room to try it on.
I unbutton my shirt and slip the gown over my head. It falls like water over my shoulders and down my back, tightening into a slightly fitted corset around my waist. Small white pearls lie on the fabric like drops of frost, and the dipped neckline leaves Mother’s necklace exposed bare against my breastbone. I take it off and hold it in my hand, considering whether I should leave it hidden somewhere in my room. In the end I return it to my neck and turn the chain around so that it falls down my back to gleam between my shoulder blades.
“Mrs. Cliffton?” I ask, knocking on her door. She opens it, dressed in a midnight blue satin ball gown with short sleeves and a dipping neckline, and I think I’ve never seen anyone look so elegant.
She smiles widely when she sees me. “Oh, dear. Do you like it? Have you seen yourself? You look stunning.”
She leads me to the bathroom and flicks her wrist toward the mirror. My reflection swirls and materializes. I step forward.
The dress sets off the auburn in my hair in a river of dark copper, and Mrs. Cliffton uses a curling iron to form large, soft waves at my shoulders. Then she pins them with a sprig of silver flowers. My eyes stare back at me, gray and bright in the mirror, and though I wish for a more dramatic curve along my chest and waist, the corset helps. I suppose it’s because I don’t spend much time seeing my reflection these days, but the girl looking back at me seems older, somehow.
Mrs. Cliffton applies bright red lipstick to her lips and a dab of Vaseline, then offers them to me. As soon as she finishes blotting, our reflections fade back into blank glass. She turns to me for a look of approval as the doorbell rings.
I just nod and grin at her, and it makes her smile.
“William!” she calls. “Can your father get the door?”
I return to my room for my shoes and then peek over the balcony. Eliza has arrived, wearing a scarlet dress that falls in chiffon drapes, with a spray of silver sparkle around the neckline, almost as if she is dusted with Glimmers. Her hair is piled in an updo that must have taken half the day, and her shoulders peek out from beneath a stole. She laughs, a high, tinkling sound, at something Dr. Cliffton says, and sips from a flute of sparkling cider Genevieve serves on a silver tray. “Thank you,” she says. “My mother bought it for me.”
I wait until Mrs. Cliffton has gone downstairs to greet Eliza and act as a buffer. I grip the banister, keeping my eyes trained on the stairs to avoid falling. When I reach the landing, Eliza and Will are lined up next to each other for a picture. Will is in a black suit and tie. His eyes are a searing blue, his eyebrows arched and dark, and even though I tell it not to, my heart aches.
“Smile, William—?a real smile,” Mrs. Cliffton prods, and at the moment the camera flashes, his face turns toward me. Then George strides through the door, followed closely by his mother.
“See, Georgie,” Mrs. Mackelroy trills. “I want the ivy to climb up the face of the house, just so—?just exactly as the Clifftons have done. And the lights everywhere—?Matilda, what you’ve done is simply marvelous,” she says, reaching out for a glass of champagne. “It’s inspired, really.”
George whistles when he sees me. His tie is Sterling crimson and silver, latticed into a plaid. His hair is combed and his freckles are barely visible. There’s an air of confidence that’s new since I saw him that first day outside the doors of the high school.
“Aila and George, line up by Will and Eliza and we’ll get a picture,” Dr. Cliffton says. “In honor of the ball that never was.” I hesitate, then end up between George and Will, trying not to meet Will’s eyes while also keeping my face turned toward his mouth in case he says something to me. His hand comes to rest on my hip. I wonder what he smells like.