Chapter Seventeen #2
Maddox waves at me. “Lili likes the cute-goth look. It works for her. Juxtaposition. All that’s best in dark and bright.”
When we just stare, he thumps his head back. “Fine. Ready?” He takes a deep breath and rams through the poem like he’s reciting the alphabet. “She walks in beauty, like the night / Of cloudless climes and starry skies; / And all that’s best of dark and bright / Meet in her aspect and her eyes.”
He glares at us. “Don’t make me recite the whole thing.”
“You say it with such heart, such feeling,” Theo says.
Maddox flips him the finger. “I wouldn’t need to recite it at all if I weren’t dealing with uncultured boors.”
“Hey, I know the poem,” I say. “I just blanked. It’s gorgeous, but I have no idea how to translate it into a costume.”
“Allegra will.”
“Does this mean I get to be Lord Byron?” Theo sits up. “Mad, bad, and dangerous to know?”
I glance over. “He was also chased out of England for his scandalous behavior and enormous debts.”
“Goals,” Theo says.
“Does this work for you, Lili?” Maddox asks.
“It does.”
“Then I’d suggest you two go talk to Allegra while I finish my book.”
—
“Yes,” Allegra says to Theo and me after the obligatory grumbles about the timing. “I will design a dress for Liliana.”
“And this fulfils my obligation?” I say. “Since I told you who Theo’s taking to the gala before anyone else knows?”
She gives me a hard look.
“What?” I say. “Technically—”
“I will accept it as a down payment. I’ll design your dress and recommend the makeup and accessories to complete the look. In return, you will be very clear who’s responsible for your outfit.”
“You’ll get all the credit,” I say. “For both our outfits.”
She turns to Theo. “Not yours.”
“What?” Theo says. “You won’t turn me into Lord Byron?”
“You’re already halfway there.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It’s not supposed to be. I design dresses, not costumes. You have all the Hollywood connections, and you can easily find a historical costumer. Then put them in touch with me so we can include complementary elements in our designs.”
—
The rest of that week is spent in gala-prep.
Well, gala-prep squeezed into already busy school days.
And gala-prep includes getting ready for my society debut.
The guys can reassure me that the Quartz is much smaller than the Met, but it still feels like being flung into the deep end when I can’t even dog paddle.
Seven times, I work up the courage to tell Theo I can’t do this. Four times I talk myself down. Twice, Maddox talks me down. Once, I just curl up in bed and whimper until the feeling passes.
What gets me through it are three things: One, knowing I need to appear in public sooner or later, and I kind of like the idea of “hiding” in a costume when I do it.
Two, knowing this is a big deal to Theo, and I’d never let him down.
Three, knowing Maddox wants me there for Theo, and I’d never let him down.
Theo’s mom asked us to join her for brunch before the gala.
His mom…who is one of the most recognizable faces in the world, a woman with Oscars for Best Actress and Best Supporting Actress, a woman I’ve seen on screen since I was a little girl, staring up at her in a movie theater and thinking she was the most beautiful woman imaginable.
Now I’m supposed to meet her for brunch? When I’m going to a party with her son? As his date?
When Theo mentioned it, I immediately ran to the bathroom and threw up, which answered his question. He sent his regrets—so much studying, we’ll see her at the gala, kiss-kiss.
Car service picks us up at Westdale and drives us to an Atlanta hotel. We’re snuck in the back and whisked up to our separate suites, where teams wait to get us gala-ready.
The next few hours are like every movie-makeover scene times ten.
A mini-salon has been set up in my room, and the team starts by washing my already clean hair.
Then my face is…I don’t know. Scrubbed? Peeled?
Waxed? All of the above? My brows are reshaped.
My hair is trimmed. I get a full mani-pedi, and the whole time, I feel like a doll, propped up in a chair while everyone works on me.
Once all that’s done, I’m outfitted in the first layer of my costume, a dark-blue sheath that’s nearly black. It’s adjusted until it’s so tight I might need to be cut out of it later.
Then it’s time for makeup and hair. The makeup is more like face paint—it’s part of the costume—and it takes an hour.
Next the costume’s top layer is added, followed by more primping and adjusting and tweaking, before I’m declared ready.
I haven’t seen myself yet. That’s one way this room differs from a salon. No mirrors.
Finally, my makeup artists send me into the bedroom to see the end result. I expect they’ll follow me for my reaction, but thankfully, they don’t.
I half shut the door behind me. Inside, there’s a big three-way mirror. It’s angled so I can’t see myself yet, and I approach it the way one might a wild animal.
What if it’s awful? What if they put in all that work, and it doesn’t live up to Allegra’s vision because I don’t live up to it? Everyone can only work with what I give them.
I slide in front of the mirror and—
A stranger looks back—a huge-eyed grown woman—and I want to flee. To race out of the mirror’s eye until my heart stops thumping.
I take a deep breath and force myself to look at the gown first. There’s the simple sheath dress, which has found curves where I didn’t think I had any.
It’s also very short. Like “barely covers my ass” short, and my face heats seeing it.
At least the second layer helps, even if it’s pretty much see-through.
It’s that same blue-black color, diaphanous with silver threads that sparkle like stars in a night sky.
Because it’s sheer, you can see my skin under it, so pale I glow.
For footwear, I have sandals with laces that go up my calves. The heels are low and chunky, suitable for a girl who’s never worn stilettos. I wear silk gloves with straps weaving up my forearms to match the sandals, and under those straps, my skin is luminous.
I slowly lift my head to see my face and my breath catches.
I’ve seen myself in makeup, obviously, but this is different.
The artist contoured my face with exaggerated shadows to embrace the “dark and bright” motif.
Makeup makes my oversized eyes even bigger and their green even brighter.
My lips are goth-dark, and there’s smudged color along my hairline, as if my face is partially in shadow.
Whatever they put on for powder sparkles when I move.
My hair is the least “done” part of me, left down and curled into soft waves at the front. It’s a simple showcase for the fancy headpiece, which is a glittering black tiara woven into my hair.
Soft footfalls sound, and before I can turn, a voice murmurs, “She walks in beauty, like the night / Of cloudless climes and starry skies.” Theo appears behind me, his hands clasping my upper arms softly as he bends to kiss my neck.
“And all that’s best of dark and bright / Meet in her aspect and her eyes. ”
My eyes glitter—and not from makeup—as I quickly blink back tears.
He squeezes my arms. “You look incredible.”
“Don’t you dare make me cry. Someone spent a half hour on my eyes.”
He kisses my neck again, and a shiver runs through me, and I know he’s just being…gallant? Chivalrous? But I still feel the heat of his lips long after he moves away.
I turn and step back to get a look at him.
He model-turns. “Not bad for a guy who’s been dead for a few hundred years.”
I whistle. “Wow, Allegra is going to be pissed that she can’t take credit for this.”
“Her own fault. She had her chance to dress Theo Dubois.”
The costume designer went for vibes rather than authenticity, and his outfit is the better for it.
He has the wide white collar and flowing cravat we saw in paintings.
And he wears a burgundy coat, like many of the portraits.
But the coat is a modern-vintage crushed-velvet fitted jacket, and the snug trousers are definitely not eighteenth century.
I have no idea if the knee-high black boots are, and I don’t care.
A makeup artist has worked on him, too, with smudged eyeliner and a faint red on his lips that may not be period-appropriate but definitely screams Romantic poet.
His hair has been styled to turn his waves into soft curls that tumble over his forehead.
The most impressive part, though, is the color.
The stylist didn’t darken his gold locks to match Byron’s hair—instead they added black streaks, making his hair look like art.
“You like the hair?” he says. “Dark and bright, but also, tarnished gold, suitable for a bad-boy poet.” He grins. “And maybe for me, too.”
“You look amazing.”
“Then I look like I belong with you.” He takes my hand and lifts it to his lips with a half bow. “Before we go, though…”
He takes out his phone from a hidden pocket and hits a button.
A moment later, Maddox appears. “Finally. I thought I was going to have to look up photos online.”
“Art takes time. And this is art…”
He turns the phone toward me and pulls back so Maddox can see as I twirl for him.
“Fuck,” Maddox says. “That’s…”
“Your idea,” I say, grinning as I move back to the phone.
“My high-level concept. Not my execution.”
I take the phone and back up to show him Theo. “And the Byronic hero himself.”
“Adequate,” Maddox says.
Theo lifts both middle fingers.
“I’m kidding.” Maddox’s voice softens. “You look good, buddy. Really good. You two are going to slay.”
“That is the plan,” Theo says. “Now, I need to run and do something. You keep Our Lady of Dark and Bright company.”
Theo lopes off, shutting the door behind him.
When I frown, Maddox chuckles. “That’s his not-very-subtle way of giving us a moment. In case you have any last-minute concerns.”
I inhale deeply. “Trying not to. The outfit helps. It’s like hiding behind cosplay. I can be someone else. Someone who belongs at this party.”
“You’re an heiress at a fancy fundraiser, Chamberlain. You belong there.”
“You know what I mean.”
His voice softens again. “You’ve got this. Theo is right there, and if you need a moment, go to the restroom and call me. I’ll be awake until you’re back.”
My eyes prickle again. “Thank you.”
“It’s going to be a roller coaster. You’ll see some sides of Theo you don’t see at Westdale. But whatever happens, he really wants you there. Remember what I said?”
“If he gets stressed, find a quiet place and let him vent.”
“If he gets stressed, he also might drink. I have my edibles, and he can mother-hen about that, but he has his pressure valve, and it’s a good strong drink. Or three. Cut him off at two. Let him get tipsy enough to forget why he’s stressed. But not drunk.”
“Would that be…a problem?”
“Like violent drunk? Never. More like the walls come crashing down, and you might be ready to see that, but I don’t think he’s ready for you to see that.
One drink, fine. Two drinks, okay. Then cut him off.
Invoke my name if you need to. But unless anything goes wrong, he’s not going to drink.
Focus on having a good time. That’s what he wants, and what I want for both of you. ”
“Thank you.”