Page 127 of Winterveil

“That’s because you look so pretty when you’re resting.”

A flush covered Nadiya’s cheeks. “No excuses.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

They ordered room service and sat cross-legged on the bed while they ate. Light trickled in through the translucent drapes, casting the room in tender yellow hues. Giselle didn’t worry that they might spill anything on the sheets; whatever happened, they would not be sleeping here again tonight.

Giselle wished she could slow down time, stretch out the hours between now and the gala into years. The world spinning on while they stayed here, in this hazy, half-real place. It was a hopeless wish, as doomed as any desire she’d ever had.

As if she could read her thoughts, Nadiya asked, “What do you want to do? When we make it out of here?”

When, not if. “I think I’d give myself a makeover.”

“A makeover?”

“It’d be practical,” she said. “Since we’ll be on the run. I could dye my hair purple, get a mermaid tattoo on my arm. . . .”

Nadiya laughed. “Like a pirate?”

“Well, I’m still workshopping the idea.”

They lapsed back into silence for a moment. Giselle nibbled the corner of a slice of toast. Then Nadiya said, “I want to go to New Jersey.”

“New Jersey?” Giselle echoed. “Not the Grand Canyon or Mount Rushmore or . . . or Disney World?”

“Maybe later,” Nadiya said. “But New Jersey is where I’m from. Where my family is from. I keep having these memories come back to me, just little things here and there. Like I remember my mom had three brothers. Three uncles. Michel, Cyril, and Bishara. Bishara used to tell me weird stories and pretend they were from the Bible. And Cyril was a priest, so he would get so mad. . . .” Her eyes clouded, then sharpened again. “Do you believe in God?”

“I’m not sure.” Giselle bit her lip. “Meemaw would slap me for saying that, but . . . I guess I don’t like the idea that there’s some higher power writing our futures for us. I want to believe that we have a choice in what we do.”

Nadiya nodded. “I don’t like the idea that people who do bad things are powerless over their own actions. I think they have choices.” Giselle suspected that she wasn’t only thinking of Chane, or of Deckard. “And I think they should answer for what they’ve done. I think they should pay.”

In what felt like no time at all, the glossy blue of evening spread itself across the sky. Giselle unzipped the garment bag and removed her dress. When she saw it, pale and gauzy, her throat constricted. It was more sophisticated than anything she would’ve worn during her pageant days, no sequins or patriotic colors, but it was still another costume.

Nadiya had ducked into the bathroom to put her dress on, and when she emerged, she was wearing a gown of black satin, strapless, with a high slit up the thigh. Giselle’s stomach fluttered.

“Will you zip me up?”

Giselle nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Nadiya turned around and swept up her hair, holding it above her nape, while Giselle grasped the zipper and started to tug.

Warmth radiated from Nadiya’s skin. As Giselle drew up the zipper, she observed the supple curve of Nadiya’s throat, the slim line of her shoulders, the soft, wispy baby hairs around her temples. When she reached the top of the zipper, she swallowed hard, and with no small amount of regret, she let her hands drop.

She stepped away and said, “You’re so beautiful.”

Nadiya released her hair, and it fell silky and pin straight down her back. “This dress is ridiculous.”

“You should have seen what I wore for Miss Teen Surf and Turf.”

“Stop. You’re making that up.”

“I’m not. It was sponsored by a local steakhouse.”

Nadiya smiled. “I guess you have a lot of experience with this. Dresses, hair, makeup . . .”

“Sadly.” Giselle glanced at her own dress, still lying flat on the bed. “The only nice part was getting to help the other girls backstage.”

Nadiya’s smile faltered. “So, how do I compare to the pageant queens?”

“Oh,” said Giselle. “Well, you’re out of my league.”