Chapter Six
It’s an exceptionally quiet morning at the shop, and more than once I’ve caught Sélie frowning.
She’s doing it right now. At the moment, her head is bent over an old arithmetic book, back from when all three of us attended school, which had been rare and random as we moved from place to place.
When we came to The Pins, Mavis said we’d learn more from her than in the stifling old schoolhouse, and that was that.
Our formal—albeit sporadic—education was over, although that didn’t mean any of us gave up on learning in our own ways.
As Sélie studies the difficult figures—for fun!
—I take note of how worn her dress is. This gives me a good excuse to get out of the shop, for I’m far too restless to do anything productive.
All day I’ve just been fiddling around with new recipes, but nothing feels right—I’m too excited and nervous about my performance tonight.
Patting her shoulder, I say, “Let’s close the shop for a bit.
You’re in desperate need of a new dress. ”
Sélie frowns at me, then turns back to her pages. “I’m not sure we can afford it.”
“You need one, Sélie.” I stare meaningfully at her hem, several inches too short. I tug on her sleeve and say, “Besides, Bricksbee would do well to consider taking our order on tab, for all the makeup we’ve sold Loueva.”
“Alright then.” She shuts her book hesitantly.
I set the new tins of lip stain I just made on the display shelf, lining each one up perfectly straight, and then we hang up our aprons and hook arms.
I flip the sign and lock the door behind us, then, side by side, we head to the tailor. Bricksbee’s Fine Tailoring and Dress Shop, reads the wooden sign.
We push open the door and enter the store, which smells of lavender and clean linen.
The ready-made dresses hang on one side, on dress forms, or in the windows to lure customers from the street: a chocolate silk with ruffles and a cheeky polka-dotted underskirt, a spring-green muslin with a gathered skirt and citrus-hued piping along the hem—it even has tiny lemon-shaped buttons.
I gaze hungrily at a dove-gray brocade with tassel trim and a matching parasol, though my practical mind says I have nowhere to wear such a fine dress, and anyhow, I like a little rain on me.
Nonetheless, I give it a backwards glance.
The color would match my eyes perfectly.
Maybe with my first payment from the Clover, I’ll treat myself.
But this trip isn’t about me. It’s about Sélie.
Next to me, she runs her fingers around the frilly-ruffled bodice of a cornflower-blue dress.
I say to her, “Lovely. Do you want that one? I’m sure it could be altered to fit.”
She lets her hands drop. “I was thinking something white for summer. Simpler.”
We wander over to the fabric side of the shop, and she quickly narrows in on a bolt of white cotton with skinny black lines.
“Oh, that’s pretty,” I encourage. “I bet you could do a simple lace trim too.”
Milton Bricksbee walks over, his finely tailored coat unbuttoned over his round belly. He asks blandly, “May I help you ladies find anything?”
I say, “Yes, my sister needs a new dress for summer. She likes this fabric.”
He takes the bolt, his eyes so dull I wonder if he ever gets truly excited. I suppose Loueva Maelin would know. Then I try not to laugh as he continues, “It will take three days, as I’m short a seamstress right now. Also, payment is due promptly at pickup. I usually require half-down.”
I see precisely the moment he realizes all the times we’ve let him settle his bill for his mistress after the fact. Recognition flashes across his russet-brown face. He adds, a touch warmer, “But for you, ladies, that won’t be necessary.”
With an appreciative nod, I say, “Thank you, Mr. Bricksbee. I think we’d like to get two dresses. Perhaps that blue ready-made with the ruffles as well?”
Sélie protests, tugging gently on my elbow, face rosy with discomfort. “I don’t need anything so done up, and one new dress is more than enough.”
“Don’t argue. You deserve it.” I turn to Bricksbee. “Could the blue be altered to fit her?”
“Of course. However, I do have a fabric in a very similar shade, which we could start fresh from. It would be a better fit, and I could alter the style if it’s not to your liking, Miss Bell. Fewer frills, if you so wish.” He addresses the last part to Sélie.
“I suppose.” She looks at me. “Corliss, if you’re sure?”
I answer, voice firm, willing to bully her if need be. “I’m quite sure.”
Bricksbee motions to her. He leads her to the center pedestal and has her step up.
“I’ll just have to take your measurements now, Miss. It won’t take long. Would you be wanting a protective charm sewn into the hem?”
I hold back from saying such trinkets are a waste of money and politely decline.
While he measures Sélie, I wander the shop, passing by the windows.
A movement on the other side of the glass catches my eye.
A crow perched on the shop sign. It stares at me.
I wait for it to fly away as I move closer, but it is still as a statue, glittering eyes pinned on me, hard, almost… almost mean.
I step back, bump into a dress form, nearly knocking it over in my clumsiness.
“Alright over there?” Sélie calls, arms stuck straight at her sides.
“Fine.” I clear my throat, return my gaze to the window. The bird holds its pose for a moment longer before finally flying away, and even though a window separates us, I swear I can almost feel the way the air moves in the wake of its wings.
Soon enough, Sélie is finished, and as we move through town, I scan the skies, pensive. When Sélie asks if I’d like to pop into the bookstore, a delight I’d usually revel in, I make an excuse.
The whole way back to our shop, it clings to me, a tingle on my skin, a sour taste in my mouth, the sense—the knowing. The eeriness pressed around me, the sense of someone off in the shadows. It hangs on so long I can’t ignore it. Someone is watching me.
“Corliss Bell.” Julian eyes me like a puzzle he needs to put together as we walk together to the costume room, hours ahead of my first performance. Pausing outside the door, running his slender fingers along his smoothly shaved jaw, he repeats, “Bell.”
He studies me so intently I look away, already anxious enough.
What if they don’t want me to wear the stolen shoes?
What if they prefer something more traditional?
The thought has me biting the inside of my cheek.
I’ll just tell them I need the red slippers, that they’re good luck, that they fit me perfectly.
Because I can’t dance without them here. I know I can’t. They make me better.
“Yes?” I fiddle with the shoes in my hand, twining the ribbons around my fingers.
It will only be minutes until I can put them back on, I hope.
All day at the shop, it took every ounce of my willpower not to head over to the Clover early, to dance again.
Sélie finally shooed me out, with a good luck kiss, proud tears in her eyes as she promised she’d see me later at the show.
“Bells!” Julian snaps his fingers, jarring my gaze back to him. Today he’s in a pale gray suit with a vermilion bowtie. “We’ll give you bells. You’ll be a feast for the eyes and for the ears.”
He must see my cringe when he says “feast” because he chuckles. “Not that way. Not for me, and definitely not for our customers. We’re not that kind of establishment.”
“I didn’t think you were.” I smile nervously. Not because I doubt his word. But because I’m here. I’m here, and it’s almost time to get ready.
“We just like to add a little something extra for the show. When you’re done getting your costumes, Becka will send you to get your music set—you can practice for a bit while Dina plays. Nobody will be there yet, so you’ll have the stage to yourself.”
“Is it just piano?” I’m too flustered to recall the information I might know already. Of course, I’ve only seen snippets of practices—never full shows.
Julian almost looks affronted. “There are several musicians nightly, for big shows a full orchestra. The show starts at six. You should be ready quite before that, of course. The set is listed backstage. We’ll have you go between Pearl and Lysander.
We do full ballets twice a year, with more structured themes, choreography, all that, though typically it’s more of an individual set of acts that work beautifully together.
For tonight, you’ll do your best.” He rattles off the information.
My head feels like it’s spinning. Looking past my shoulder, he adds, “Here comes Becka now.”
Then he reaches out to take my hand, his gold cufflinks glinting. His smile is earnest. “Also, I apologize for not saying it sooner, I was saddened to hear of your sister, as well as the loss of her husband. I’m afraid I made it to neither funeral.”
Aven’s funeral is still a blur, though I know there were plenty of somber faces, hushed voices.
When Darius and his crew were mourned—twenty-eight empty graves—most of The Pins attended.
Weeping mothers, bereft fathers, sweethearts in every corner.
Sélie and I held on to Aven, her belly stretched full as she swayed on her feet, face white as a ghost. I hardly noticed anyone else there.
To Julian now, I say, “I understand. But thank you.”
Before he can add anything else, the costume mistress, a small woman at under five feet tall, nudges me gently aside while she opens the door.
She waves me in with an impatient but lovely smile, her tortoiseshell eyes bright beneath a pair of wire spectacles.
“Alright, I’m here. New girl, come on in. ”
Before she shuts the door behind us, Julian calls out, “Her stage name is Bell. Give her bells.”