Thirty-Nine
New York, New York
Giselle knew she had been dreaming, but she couldn’t remember anything when she woke. The bright canvas of colors shuddered
away when she opened her eyes.
Nadiya was still asleep beside her, dark hair cast across the pillow. Her shoulders rose and fell in a gentle rhythm. With
slow, deliberate movements, careful not to wake her, Giselle slid her arms from around Nadiya’s waist and stood.
Quietly, she crept into the bathroom and regarded her face in the mirror. Sleep had helped to shrink the dark circles beneath
her eyes. Her hair was as unruly as ever, hanging heavy and hot to her waist. She held it up and allowed the waft of the air
conditioner to cool the back of her neck, letting out a sigh of relief.
The face that looked back at her was both familiar and not. Giselle saw the shades of her former self in the bow of her lips
and wide blue eyes. But there was a set to her jaw and a sheen of resolve in her stare that did not befit Giselle Anne Buckley,
Sutton Reeve’s girl, her mother’s cherished daughter, Belle’s beloved pageant queen. She had changed, in ways she still didn’t
fully understand.
With the sudden, soft patter of footsteps, Nadiya joined her in the bathroom.
“You let me sleep for too long,” Nadiya accused.
“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.”
The smile returned. Giselle’s heart skipped. Before she could lose herself in the moment, abandoning all good sense, she gathered
up her dress and went into the bathroom to change.
The gown Deckard had left for her was pure white, with fluttery cap sleeves and a ruffled chiffon skirt. It was clear that
he wanted her to be seen as delicate, vapid. Nonthreatening. A pretty face with nothing behind it.
Previously, Giselle had made her peace with her only value being her looks. Her mother had put her in pageants starting at
age eight, out of some unspoken but ferocious desire to prove her worth to the father who’d abandoned her. Sutton had chased
her just so he could show her off like a shiny new car. And even Bonnie had discarded her so easily, the moment it had become
inconvenient.
Now, as she gathered her hair into a braided crown, Giselle’s vision crowded with memories. Of blowing up the statue in Traumstadt.
Of solving Deckard’s puzzle. Of standing in the tunnel as the men charged them—
She had told Nadiya and Julian that she didn’t know what had happened, and that was true. But what she hadn’t admitted was
that she liked it. She had liked feeling capable and powerful. Somehow, she had managed to project her will upon the world.
Giselle shook her head, trying to chase the thoughts away. Maybe it had just been a fantasy, another one of Deckard’s tricks. Maybe he just wanted her to think that she had power, only to strip her of it again.
When her braids had been pinned in place, Giselle stepped out of the bathroom. Nadiya had put on her heels and a pair of dangling
silver earrings. For a moment, Giselle allowed herself to pretend that they were two ordinary girls, preparing for an ordinary
party. One where they could laugh and dance and kiss and pretend that the world was not such a fickle place, both fragile
and treacherous.
“Are you ready?” Nadiya asked. She reached out her hand.
Ready to run. Ready to save ourselves. Ready to save Satow.
She wouldn’t let it happen. She wouldn’t let Nadiya risk her life—or her soul—by becoming a killer. Just as she had before,
in that impossible way, in that dream, Giselle would protect her.
Giselle reached back and laced her fingers with Nadiya’s.
“Yes,” she said. “I’m ready.”