No silly bows, no frills, no ribbons except the black one holding back her hair. She tipped her chin up. Something about the dress, simple though it was, made her feel bold. No wonder Hunter Black favored dark clothes. She could imagine another life in this dress, envision herself selecting creamy white dahlias at the flower market, climbing into an airplane waiting to whisk her off to somewhere exotic, sitting at a corner café beneath a red-and-white-striped awning, served coffee and macaroons just like anyone else.
But something was missing.
Her eyes fell on a satin jacket on a nearby rack. It was a bold red, made of a quilted fabric that caught the light. Heavy embroidery in dazzling colors hugged the shoulders and arms. There was something undeniably masculine about the jacket, especially the embroidery that wasn’t neatly stitched but a little wild, threads running together like spider webs. She stepped down from the platform and walked around to look at the back. The embroidery continued in even more vibrant blues and greens and oranges, cascading along the jacket’s soft curves in the shape of some mythical creature with wild curls of mane and wings and thorny teeth. If such a creature had a name, she’d never learned it.
Something beautiful and monstrous.
Gargoyle, she decided.
She snatched it up.
The Pretty came back in, an envelope in hand, with Beau behind her. He stopped cold in the doorway, eyes on the gap of thigh between where Anouk’s skirt ended and the socks began. His mouth opened, but whatever he was going to say never came out.
Anouk slid the silk jacket over her shoulders. Yes. Now she felt right.
“I’ll take this too,” she said.
The Pretty looked stunned. “But mademoiselle, that’s from the menswear collection. It’s a custom piece for an exclusive client coming in later today. It’s a Faustine original embroidered jacket. The price is . . . is . . . well, it is priceless. Non, it is simply impossible.”
Beau snapped back to himself. “You heard her. She’s taking it.”
“But—”
“She’s taking it.”
Anouk turned away from the infinity of her own face in the mirror and met his eyes, feeling uncertain.
“Yes. I’m taking it,” she announced, testing out this strange feeling of power.
She grabbed Beau’s arm, pulled him toward the escalators.
“Send the bill to the usual address,” he called back to the saleswoman, “and add a tip for yourself. Double the commission!”
Anouk jumped on the escalator, Beau behind her. She stretched out her arms like wings, taking the steps two at a time. The security guard at the bottom held the door open for them.
They tumbled out into the street. The sun was just rising. More people and cars were out now. An engine that sounded like a motorcycle’s revved and Anouk jerked around, but it was only a woman riding a Vespa, not Hunter Black.
“Cricket’s apartment is in the Eighth Arrondissement,” Beau said.
Anouk looked at the busy streets, the flashing traffic signals that kept changing, the eyes that seemed to peek around corners—was that someone in a top hat?—and then down at her oxford shoes. She looked back up at Beau. “We should hurry.”
Chapter 8
Paris looked different during the daytime. At night it had been shadowed corners and grim streets, but now that the sun had risen, Anouk started to notice little things she hadn’t before: a horsehead door knocker, a lazy cat blinking in a window, schoolchildren struggling under heavy backpacks. They entered a neighborhood that had fewer monuments and more shops and cafés. It was dirtier, with vibrant graffiti on the walls, but Anouk liked it. Music played from a corner café where couples sat sipping coffee.
Beau found a spot and parked the car.
Anouk climbed out hesitantly, smoothing a hand uneasily over her dress.
In the dress and the Faustine jacket, she looked just like everyone else. Looked, yes. But felt? Fear and anxiousness braided together inside her, screaming in her veins that she didn’t belong here.
Animal. Creature. Dark thing.
Beau hurried around to meet her on the sidewalk. He was still in his chauffeur’s uniform but he had lost the bloodstained jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves. On impulse, she thrust her arm through his.
He tensed in surprise. “This is the Latin Quarter,” he explained. “It’s mostly students, or at least it used to be. There are a few cheap chambres de bonne to rent, and Mada Vittora doesn’t give Cricket much of an allowance. This is her street on the left.”
His eyes scanned every shadow as they turned down a narrow and winding road with a small café tucked beneath an awning. A young couple sipped tea as they chatted. The man wore a bowler hat set at a sharp angle and a neon-blue cravat. The woman had lime-green makeup on her eyelids and fingernails painted a rainbow of colors.
“Beau, look,” she whispered. “Goblins!”
Both the man and the woman wore brass chains hooked to their belts, like the kind Pretties used for pocket watches, but these were linked instead to the dainty china cups they sipped from.
Goblins took their tea very seriously.
Beau shook his head and didn’t answer until they had passed the strange couple. “Those aren’t Goblins. They’re Pretties. It’s the strangest thing, but the, ah, nontraditional style of Goblins has spread throughout the city. It’s the latest fashion craze.”
Anouk looked over her shoulder at the couple’s ears. It was true; not even the slightest point. “I didn’t think the Pretties knew about Goblins.”
“They don’t. They’re dressing up like creatures they don’t even know exist. The Goblins are just messing with them. You know how Goblins are.”
They passed another Pretty girl dressed in garish Goblin fashion. She was winding the pocket-watch chain of her teacup lazily around one finger. Her eyes fell on Anouk.
“Hey, cool jacket.”
Anouk beamed. She followed Beau to an unassuming door that opened onto a foyer filled with mailboxes and a narrow staircase. It smelled of something stale and spicy. Beau started up the stairs. The two of them climbed until Anouk was out of breath.
Beau stopped at a door and knocked hard. “Cricket,” he called. “It’s Beau. Let me in: it’s important.”
The rest of the apartment building was filled with the gentle sounds of people starting to stir, slippered footsteps and percolating coffee. Morning light poured through the grimy window in the staircase. Anouk wondered if they’d be waking Cricket—she seemed the type to sleep in. But the door cracked open, a chain lock stretching taut, and music with a sharp beat came through the crack. Cricket was dressed in leggings and a white tank that showed her black bra beneath. Her curly brown hair was pulled back with yellow headphones. Her eyes were bleary, like she hadn’t slept.
She gave Beau a sharp look. “Whatever that witch bitch wants, tell her to wait until morning.”
“It is morning,” Beau pointed out.
Cricket squinted up at the sunlight coming through the hall window as if she didn’t trust it. She started to close the door, but Anouk thrust her shoe in the crack, preventing her.
“Let us in, please!”
“Anouk?” Cricket’s voice rose in surprise. “I hardly recognized you! Hang on.” Anouk moved her foot, and Cricket slammed the door closed. The chain lock clinked, and then the door opened fully.