All That Lives Must Die - Eric Nylund [85]
Fiona glanced one last time at the gang—she didn’t like their looks—and then hurried Amanda in front of her into the shop.
Inside were mirrors: silver dusted and gold variegated, lit with soft lighting and angled so Fiona couldn’t help but look at a dozen copies of herself and Amanda. Aunt Dallas smiled at herself and preened.
Between the mirrors hung red curtains and velvet wallpaper. There were racks of clothes as far back as Fiona could see. Everything emitted a faint flowery perfume.
A model runway ran down the length of the store. Floor lights flickered on, and an old woman hobbled down the raised platform. She was impeccably dressed in black slacks and shirt and high heels that barely brought her up to Fiona’s chin.
“We’re closed,” she croaked in a thickly accented voice and shooed them away. “Forever closed! Go away.”
Her scowl dropped as she saw Aunt Dallas. “Oh, it’s you, Lady. A thousand apologies. Come in, come in.” She smiled and bowed. “Can I have coffee or tea or perhaps some Kirschwasser brought out for you?”
“Nothing for me, Madame Cobweb. We are working on my niece tonight.” She nodded at Fiona. “And her charming friend, Miss Lane.”
The old woman’s eyes grew wide. “The Fiona Post? Yes . . . I see the resemblance. To the mother as well. Stunning. Grace and beauty just now budding.” She fumbled the glasses on a silver chain about her neck and donned them, taking a more careful, much longer look.
Fiona felt like she’d been set under a microscope and every pimple and too-large pore exposed.
“Yeeees. Exquisite material. Both of them. But Paxington girls? Those uniforms—something must be done.” Madame Cobweb said Paxington like it was a rare tropical disease. Like she and Amanda needed to be quarantined.
“Maybe this wasn’t a great idea,” Amanda whispered, and took a step back. “I’ll just wait in the car. . . .”
“We shall hear none of that,” the old woman said. “Beautiful girls must wear beautiful things. Come, I measure you.”
Dallas wrapped her arms around Amanda and Fiona and drew them along to Madame Cobweb. “It won’t hurt,” she said. “Much. Probably.”
Madame Cobweb took out a tape measure and zipped it across Fiona’s shoulders and down her back, making tut-tut noises. “They should not have been let out in these rags.” She turned her about and measured her chest—first above, then directly over, and then she measured under as well. “Needs lifting and definition,” she said.
Fiona’s face burned, but she endured the handling rather than letting any of them see how self-conscious she was.
“You know how that horrid Miss Westin is with her tweed and slavish devotion to Victorian styles,” Dallas said, rolling her eyes. “We’re lucky they’re not in whalebone corsets.”
Madame Cobweb measured Amanda, who let her move and pose her like a doll.
She then examined the numbers on her notepad. “I have many things in their sizes. My latest creations.”
“Very well,” Dallas said, and tiny frown appeared on her lips. “But you will make a few things, just for them, no?”
“But of course, M’lady. Originals. Only the best.” Madame Cobweb moved to the back of the shop. “One moment, please.”
Fiona turned. “Aunt Dallas, this is great. Really. But we’re wearing uniforms all day. When are we going to need anything else?” She made a little frustrated motion with her hands.
“And their wretched uniforms!” Dallas shouted back to the old woman. “They will need three new ones that actually fit.”
“Oui, mademoiselle,” Madame Cobweb called back.
Dallas turned her attention back to Fiona. “There are always occasions to dress up, darling. Dances and parties. I’ll see to that.”
“Maybe we should just try on a few things,” Amanda whispered. “It could be fun.” She brushed her hair to one side.
Dallas stepped closer. “Let me, please.” She grabbed a clip off a nearby rack of rhinestone encrusted hairpins and tucked Amanda’s hair back and fussed over it. She did the other side of her head then and turned her back to face Fiona. Amanda’s hair was finally out of her face, artfully swept up, and highlighted