Soul and Blade (6 page)

So I avoid instances like this—being naked in front of people who could never imagine the places I have been.

To their credit, the three girls do try to hide it.

The underwear they force on me is more comfortable than it looks, but it’s overly puffy to be under a dress.

“Is she ready?” the mean shop owner snaps from outside the doors. A robe is wrapped around my shoulders as Jenny squeaks, “Ready!”

The doors are thrown open and the dresses parade in.

I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until I blink and start to sweat again. Angie rolls her eyes at me and storms the changing room. She smiles as patronizingly as I have ever seen and says, “We ’ave this, ’er an I. Why dinna ya girls go and rest yur wee feet fer a half an hour.” She really lays on the Scottish accent.

They part their lips but change their minds on whatever they’re about to say when they see the gleam in her eyes—it’s the crazy gleam that only Scots are able to use against the rest of us. To a Scot, it’s a look of power and pride, but something the rest of us fear—mostly because it resembles instability.

The three girls scuttle out and Angie closes the doors, sighing and slumping into the overstuffed armchair. “This is some misery, this is.” She sounds about half Scot with it just being the two of us. “She has ya changing into ten dresses of differing styles and fluffiness and she’s got all sorts of plans. And we don’t eat for another three hours.”

“What do we do?” I ask, not certain of the plan, but liking where she might be going with it all. She sounds like she wants to escape.

She raises her eyebrows and nods at the dresses. “We’re gonna try them on and see which one the old battle-ax likes, then we’re getting pissed. And Dash is fucking well buying enough booze to float me back home on.” She pulls her feet out of her shoes and gets up, grabbing the first frock.

I back away slowly, as if she were wielding a knife. “That’s a lot of lace. Maybe we can start with the others. They look less lacy. The back is see-through on that.” I cock an eyebrow and point.

She winces. “Right, which would be why they put the corset on ya. The scars are going to be covered, Janey.”

I wrinkle my nose and she puts the dress back, chuckling and calling me something like “little bitch” in Gaelic.

She grabs a princess gown with a tight corset bodice and a huge skirt made of the stuff that sounds like where the Russian president has his offices and all the tourists go—Kremlin—but not.

I think of ways to wiggle out or protest but remember she’s here for me, to help me. So I nod and sigh and think bad thoughts, but keep them to myself.

She holds it open for me to step into. Honestly, it looks like I might fall into a magical hole and end up in Neverland or Wonderland, if I step into it. But not wanting to be a little bitch, I lift a heeled foot, not even recalling when they got the stockings or heels on me, and step in. She lifts with an ooooomph and barks, “Hold it up, ya ninny! It weighs a goddamned ton, Janey. Lift her up and hold her tight so I can get the clasps and hooks at the top, then we worry about the eight billion snaps.”

I do as she has ordered. She steps back after a second and says, “Nope! The scars are fully visible. This fucking corset doesn’t hide a damned thing.” She looks at me in the mirror, cocking a dark eyebrow. “I think they’re fucking with ya out there. I think she wants everyone to see them scars.”

I sigh and tap my fingers against my thighs. “Is there one that perhaps has some sort of mesh on the top? One that might cover the worst of it? I don’t want the entire world to look at my back and think Dash rescued me from some kind of sex slavery.”

“Not if Georges says it’s not in style. He’s all about the haute couture.”

I don’t even know if Angie knows what she’s talking about, but I am getting annoyed. “He’s going to be all about digging out whatever I shove up his ass if he doesn’t make me a fucking dress that fits and covers my shit and makes that wing nut happy.” I point at the doors, possibly speaking too loud. “I was in a terrible accident, where my whole family fucking died and then I went to war. I fought for my country. I am covered in the proof and I don’t need everyone thinking I am some sad little orphan. It’s bad enough my side will consist only of you, Mrs. Starling, and my partner in crime, Antoine, but to be blasting my scars everywhere is just too much. Maybe he can make me a midriff
I Dream of Genie
dress and we can talk about how I can’t have kids—cause my family died!” The words leave in a panicked rant, and I’m pretty sure I have spit on both of us during it.

Angie laughs, accustomed to the way I get when we do things like shop or involve Dash’s family. “Well, why in the hell are ya so beaten up all over, ya wee brat? Who even has this many scars from war?” She winks and chuckles before nodding. “All right then. Ya better be ready to play some Little Orphan Annie for this.” She shakes her head and steps out, closing the French doors. I can’t make out what she’s saying, which gives me hope they haven’t heard us this entire time.

The shop owner follows Angie in, cocking an eyebrow at me in the monstrosity of a dress. “She’s actually an orphan,” says Angie. “Her entire family was killed in a terrible accident and she’s the sole survivor. But her body is battered. Scarred, if ya will. She canna wear a dress showing all her injuries to tha world.” Her accent is so thick I barely make it all out.

I lay my own act on thick, lowering my brow in shame, with my voice breaking a tiny bit as I speak. “Perhaps more coverage won’t humiliate Lady Townshend.”

The shop lady, whom I had believed to be the owner, swallows, clearly uncomfortable, but I bet not nearly as uncomfortable as I am. “I will speak with Georges and see if we have something. Give me a moment.” She turns and leaves.

“I love when we get to do the
Cagney and Lacey
thing.”

Angie snorts. “The fact that we know who Cagney and Lacey are proves we both need to worry more about getting married and less about how.”

“Classy.” I laugh and lean against the wall, sweating in the dress made of pain and hate.

The door opens, but a snooty shop owner doesn’t come in; instead it is a very old man. He’s got white hair and thick glasses. His fingers look like they are all callused on the ends and his skin is nearly see-through, it’s so thin. “You vant a special dress?” he asks with a thick accent, French and German, if I’m not mistaken. Alsace perhaps. “I do not make zee special dress for just anyvone. My line is my line. Vere are zeese scars?”

He comes around the back of me, and as he lifts his hands, I lose all the fight in me. I let him see them. The serial numbers on his wrist tell me that there is not a scar on my body that he has not seen on another and the ones inside him are ten times worse.

Angie sees it too. I can tell by the way she flinches and swallows like there’s a whole potato in her throat.

“Yes, zeese are wery bad. You have been vipped, no? And zis one here, it is a mess. Zee person zat stitched you vas an amateur. You are a soldier? Zis one vas done in a hurry.”

I nod slowly.

“Vat is your rank?”

“Master sergeant,” I mutter and turn, looking into his eyes, his old blue eyes. “So you understand the delicate nature of this?”

He nods once. “You vill have zee greatest dress. I need eight months.” He turns and leaves, shouting in French that he wants everyone out of the shop and that he must have silence. The woman I mistook as the shop owner gives me a look. “What did you do?”

“Nothing. He wants to make me a special dress.”

Angie scoffs, “None of these will do for her.” She steps out over the dress’s train and closes the door, undoing me in a hurry.

I pull on my clothes and sigh when my poor battered nipples relax into my comfy sports bra. The dragging off of the corset instead of unbuttoning the damned thing is about the least of my issues, but it hasn’t done my poor boobs any favors.

I leave the dressing room to find Lady Townshend is gone, as is Melody. The shop lady gives me a snooty glance. “We will be in touch when Georges believes he is closer to the finishing date and needs sizing.”

“He never took my measurements.”

She laughs an almost perfect maniacal laugh. “He’s been doing this since the fifties. He can assess your measurements in a glance.”

I take a breath; it’s the one that I need to take so I don’t strangle her. Angie grabs my hand and drags me from the boutique. The air on the street is remarkable. It’s crisp and cool but fresh and cleansing. And the open space, even in New York, is a better feeling than any.

“Jane!”

I turn to see Dash jogging up the street.

“You’re early,” I shout back, with a wave and an instant smile that he always puts on my lips.

“I got worried. My mom and Melody and the dresses—it made me think you might not be doing so well. That maybe this wasn’t the distraction you needed.”

I laugh and look at Angie. “It was exactly the distraction I needed.”

Angie laughs with me. “Aye, me too. Those people in there are terrible, and yer mother, Dash, was in prime form, a real ballbuster today. Even Melody took a couple hits.”

I wished I had seen more of those. The only one I really saw was when she got bitchy about Dash’s name.

He winces as he walks to us, kissing me on the cheek and quickly hugging Angie. “Well, for all that, I am sorry. I have heard Georges is a fairly amazing designer.”

I can’t help but smile. “He’s amazing. Sort of sharp and spicy, but impressive. He’s making me a dress.”

Dash looks concerned. “You didn’t find one, then?”

“They don’t work.” Angie nods. “She’s small and shaped funny. So he is just going to custom one up.”

He isn’t fooled. “My mother tried picking dresses that would show your scars, didn’t she?”

I bite my lip.

He sighs and covers his eyes. “I told her there were scars from the accident on your back and stomach that you didn’t like showing. I was hoping she wouldn’t use them as her modus operandi for torturing you.”

I shrug. “It didn’t work. But it doesn’t matter. If I end up telling them I was a spy and an assassin and a master sergeant, then I do. I don’t care. And besides, Georges has endured far worse and he’s a much better man for it. This won’t kill me. Nothing else has.”

“I heard he was in Alsace as a boy, only ten when the Germans took it. His family was Jewish, therefore they were sent to Natzweiler-Struthof. Somehow he managed to stay alive, but his parents died there in the camp. An uncle took him in and raised him as a dressmaker. He came to America when he was thirty and now runs both this shop and the one in Paris that his uncle owned.”

Angie cocks an eyebrow. “Look who’s a wealth of knowledge! Does yer mother know all of this as well?”

“I’m sure she’s been told the story. Whether she cares to recall it is another matter. My mother doesn’t bother about anything but herself, Henry, and me. And in that order I’m afraid.” He laughs, but only lifts one side of his lip, revealing that sharp incisor I love so much. “I, on the other hand, enjoy getting to know people. It’s another thing we disagree on.”

I wince at the name Henry. I hate that Dash’s brother was part of the disgusting crimes Rory committed in the brothel. I hate that the family is humiliated by the outcome of my work. I sigh and lean in, letting his warmth seep into me. “It’s one of the things I like about you.”

“Okay, I can take a hint. You two need some alone time.” Angie waves her hand at him. “What time is dinner then?”

Dash winces, making me groan. “Noooooo.”

He pleads with his eyes. “It’s one meal. They’re very excited about the wedding. Please, one dinner and maybe a brunch and then we are back to DC and you can start your resignation letter as well.”

Angie looks shocked. “Yer leaving the team as well, then?”

I realize I’ve held it together remarkably for her. “I am. I need some ‘me’ time.”

“Too many runs and too many crazy people.” She sighs. “I feel that.” A forced smile spreads across her face. “My new gig will be a lot less interactive. There’s going to be a great deal of ‘me’ time to be had. If I wasn’t already there, I might go crazy from all the aloneness.”

“I think we will all need a little break from reality when this is finally over.” Dash chuckles as he glances at the ground. He looks like he might say something else but doesn’t. He just reaches for my hand and squeezes. “We will meet you for dinner at eight. Can I get you a car?”

Angie shakes her head, still forcing her smile. “Naw, I’m grand. I’ll see to myself, maybe do some shopping. I never brought anything fancy enough for dinner with yer parents.”

He scoffs. “I never have anything fancy enough for that.”

She waves as she turns, disappearing into the crowds when she gets to the crosswalk.

We don’t speak. He about-faces suddenly, jerking and dragging me along the sidewalk. He doesn’t say a single thing, not even when we reach the car he has parked. He opens the back door for me. I’m almost afraid he’s angry with me for something, but I can hardly think what that would be.

I climb in, realizing the partition between the driver and us is closed. It’s black and thick, and I don’t know who’s up there. It feels like a mind run again.

My breath hitches as my fingers graze the partition. It feels cold and real, but there are so few places inside me that believe in real anymore.

Dash climbs in, slamming the door and pressing himself against my back. He pulls my coat off, kissing my neck while drawing me into his lap.

My eyes are stuck on the black partition, wondering if whoever is up there can see us. Wondering if this is some kind of cruelty Rory has planned. I can’t fight the urge to lift my fingers again to the partition and touch it. It’s still cold and it still feels real, but I have a terrible feeling it’s not. That none of this is.

The dress shop and the scars and the shame all feel like things Rory would torture me with. I can’t breathe and the walls are closing in on me.

My mind forces me to recognize this for what it is. It’s the direct result of too many mind runs.

I get a chill and shiver, maybe at again staring into my own eyes as someone pulls away my sweater and shirt. That it’s Dash this time doesn’t quite make it better.