Chapter 11
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
There’s an Italian term—sprezzatura, meaning studied carelessness, or the art of masking meticulous planning with an air of nonchalance.
I want to believe that I can emulate that.
But in reality, I pale in comparison to people like Nathalie and Graham.
They’re built to light up rooms, I’m built to fade into shadows and ensure I’m easily forgettable.
Even if I might be malfunctioning as of late.
Maybe, in another life, I would’ve grown up to have sprezzatura. I’d be confident, not in my abilities, but in who I am.
Am I a product of my experiences, or is this who I was made to be? I’ll never know.
Nathalie stares at me through the mirror. She’s more chic than I’d ever hope to be, with dark, slim-cut jeans, tiny ballet flats, and a silk cream blouse that complements her olive brown skin. A single gold pin is buried in her thick black hair, swept up in a chignon at the nape of her neck.
“Noir?” she suggests, motioning to my t-shirt.
I nod helplessly and watch as she darts through the curtain to the backroom.
She’s spent far too long attempting to discern my favorite color.
Truthfully, it’s something I never gave much thought.
After all, the academy had uniforms, and most of what I wear around HQ is regulation.
What I pack for assignments is less about preference and more about my cover’s personality.
There’s been an array of cashmere sweaters, heavy coats that reached my calves, and a pair of leather pants I actually quite liked. I’m no stranger to playing dress-up—I’ve lost countless hours in the basement of HQ being poked with pins and shoved into every piece of clothing imaginable.
This is different. Nathalie’s hanging on my every word, waiting to be directed and curious to hear my thoughts. I’m not sure I have any. I feel more like a newborn fawn than I did on my first assignment.
Graham’s lounging on a mauve-hued couch behind me—apparently, it’s his turn to spectate—sipping on an espresso Nathalie made and doing a terrible job of pretending not to thoroughly enjoy my torture. His eyes meet mine through the mirror.
“You’re going to tell me who you thought that was,” I say, flicking my gaze back to the curtain Nathalie disappeared behind.
He drapes one arm across the back of the couch. “All in due time.”
“Now is due time,” I hiss and lurch off the platform, closing the distance so we’re not overheard. “I am rapidly losing my patience with you, Graham.”
“Oh, I do like it when you say my name.”
My cheeks redden with anger. “Really? Because I should be calling you inmate.”
Graham’s mouth twitches into a smile. He stands abruptly and snakes one arm around my waist. I’m about to threaten him with a broken finger when he puts his lips against my ear and whispers, “We have an audience, Agent.”
I stiffen for a split second before forcing myself to relax. I throw my head back in a delighted laugh, place my hands on his chest, and pretend to be startled by Nathalie’s presence.
She finishes rolling the clothing rack—laden with every color imaginable—from the back room, her gaze sparkling as she watches us.
“Excusez-nous,” Graham says. His warm breath fans over my neck, the clash of temperatures sending goosebumps down my chilled spine. He places a furtive kiss on my cheek before releasing his hold. “We were overcome with newlywed bliss.”
Nathalie’s mouth curls knowingly. She directs me onto the platform and Graham settles back onto the couch. While she’s draping different tops across my chest, she squints and tilts her head occasionally, seemingly making a mental note of the shades she thinks are best.
“Beautiful, yes?” she says, holding a blood-red suede jacket to my face. I smile in response and she takes a hesitant step closer, dropping her voice conspiratorially. “Ah… I have a question.”
“Oui?”
She gives a dimpled smile at my French. “Je ne comprends pas… inmate.”
I bite my lip against a laugh and catch Graham’s eyes in the mirror again. He raises both eyebrows as if intrigued to see what I’ll come up with. It certainly won’t be a fake pregnancy. We’re already tangled up together enough as it is, thanks to his quick thinking.
After a moment of consideration, I say, “It’s a lighthearted reference to him being shackled to me.” My stare darts pointedly to Graham’s in the mirror. “It means he’s getting on my very last nerve.”
He makes a dissatisfied noise behind us. “But you like it.”
After a beat, I reply, “Yes, I do,”—because Nathalie’s watching us with clear interest, and no other reason at all.
An hour later, Nathalie’s assigned a stock room attendant to pack up the concerning amount of clothes I now own and have nothing to do with. Graham’s attempting to persuade her to take a fairly thick tip.
I drift towards the front of the store. Daylight pours in the windows from the mall’s roof window, igniting brass accents across the shop and bathing displays in midday amber. I’m trying to take the time to recalibrate and slip back into reality when something catches my eye.
Silky emerald green hanging all alone.
Rolling hills and lush farmland flash in my memory.
It’s an echo of my past, long-repressed by years of training.
I can almost feel the breeze tickling my face as summer air rushes in through the car window, smelling of grass and dirt and cattle.
The distant buzz of bees floats to my ears.
If I turned, I could see his face. I know it.
I don’t realize I’ve drawn closer to the dress until the cool fabric glides through my fingers like water. A sob lodges in my throat. I will the tears, begging for release, to remain where they are.
It occurs to me, with a twist of concern in my chest, that this dress is one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. I can’t remember the last time I’ve had a free moment to think about what I like or stop to admire it. Let alone something as frivolous as a dress Sloane has no use for.
An ache, maybe longing or sadness or both, rests heavy over my shoulders.
Severed from Poppy the thief and Sloane the ISA agent, I am adrift.
Perhaps the penance for living a normal life apart from violence and deception is that loose, terrifying, thrilling feeling.
The floating and equally disconcerting drop in your stomach when a plane takes off.
Not dissimilar to how it felt when the agency lost track of me last night.
As if I was suddenly as light as this fabric, waiting for the right gust of wind to toss me somewhere unknown. And this dress… the only word I have to properly describe it is resplendence.
“Would you like that wrapped up as well?” Nathalie’s voice comes from behind my right shoulder.
I jump in place, pulse rocketing like she’s just surprised me with a gun pressed to my temple. And I am rarely surprised. “No, that’s alright,” I manage weakly.
Reality.
A thorny coil of dread grips me as I grasp in the dark for that beacon. A beam of light, a gust of wind, something to reveal again which way is up.
Graham appears from the dressing room lounge, tucking his markedly thinner money clip back into his jeans. “What’s this? Has my dear Lady wife finally found something she likes?”
Graham.
Several things happen in quick succession before I can ponder why my muscles suddenly relaxed.
I drop the dress as if it’s poisoned me. His eyes shift from amusement to horror as they flick toward the door. My hand reaches for a gun that’s not there. Nathalie steps away with a greeting, and I nearly grab her arm and wrench her away.
My pulse stutters when I finally register who’s there.
A thin woman, about my height, with mousy brown hair.
Draped in flawlessly tailored neutrals that swish with every movement.
Her deep frown settles on Graham. It looks as if he’s hardly breathed since she walked through the door.
Nathalie, sensing something deeper going on, excuses herself and rushes into the backroom.
“Your wife?” the woman spits.
The strange sense of peace I’d been nursing is sucked from the air, along with all the oxygen.