Stiletto (69 page)

“Well, no fear of that,” said Leliefeld. “Although they may try to deposit their rubbish in your cleavage.”

“The quartermaster’s office is more used to sourcing armor and weaponry,” said Felicity, spurred by a feeling of defensive loyalty. “I don’t think they’ve had to do much with evening wear.”

“I’m sure their intentions were honorable, but there’s no way you can wear that,” said Leliefeld firmly.

“I don’t have anything else even vaguely appropriate at home except a bridesmaid’s dress,” said Felicity, “and that is fuchsia and has puffed sleeves.”

“What about the dress you wore to Ascot?”

“At the dry cleaners,” said Felicity grimly.

“If Judas Iscariot were alive, and a woman, and attending formal functions, wearing this dress would still represent a disproportionate punishment for his sins.”

“Her sins.”

“Right,” said Leliefeld uncertainly. “Anyway, I have a spare dress you can wear.” Felicity looked at her and tried to think of a diplomatic way to express her thoughts.

“That’s very kind of you, but you’re too short and your breasts are too small. Any dress that fits you would make me look like a whore or a sausage.”
Maybe I
should
look at going into diplomacy,
Felicity thought, quite pleased with herself.

“It’ll fit you,” Leliefeld assured her. “It’s very adaptable.”

*

The news channels had not calmed down about the Blinding at all, not even after the unrelated revelation that a married member of the House of Lords had been having a homosexual affair with a married foreign spy. Felicity, Leliefeld, and Alessio all sat on the couch and watched the constantly shown footage of the Blinding. Felicity had listened to the radio broadcasts, but it was different seeing it on television. The image of that yellow-green cloud spreading through the cities was somehow just as terrifying as actually being there. To make matters worse, they were also showing pictures of the victims, focusing on those few who had suffered the very worst reactions.

“Were you able to help that boy?” asked Alessio. They were all looking at one of the most famous photos from the attacks, a small dark-haired child who had been blinded by the fog.

“We probably could have done something,” said Leliefeld sadly, “but I’m afraid word came down that too many people had seen the picture, and his getting new eyes would strain the boundaries of a believable medical miracle. There’s no mainstream cure for losing your eyes after a biological attack.”

“And
why
not?” asked Felicity.

“I’m sorry?”

“Well, you have a cure, and as you never tire of telling me, your work is based on science,” said Felicity. “Why don’t you people just go public and make billions?” The two Grafters exchanged glances. “What?”

“You’ve just described our worst nightmare,” said Leliefeld.

“Apart from attending a party with the Checquy,” put in Alessio. The two women shot him a look, and he subsided back into the couch cushions.

“There’s a lot of dangerous implications in what we do,” said Leliefeld. “For the world, and for us.”

“Why? After all, it’s science, our best friend in the whole wide world.”

“You know I don’t see it like that,” said Leliefeld. “And it’s complicated. To begin with, much of our work is still illegal in most countries. We’re talking genetic engineering, harvesting organs, cloning, weaponizing human biology. Alessio keeps human stem cells in his thermos.”

“For experiments, not for drinking,” Alessio assured her.

“Plus, people think that sort of thing is creepy,” said Leliefeld.

“It
is
creepy,” said Felicity. “It’s incredibly creepy. But you know they would throw those laws out the window if there was the possibility of curing cancer or doubling life spans.”

“It’s too big,” said Leliefeld, shaking her head. “If just one country gained unfettered access to our capabilities, it would become the world’s unquestioned superpower. It’s the equivalent of the Roman Empire suddenly being gifted with nuclear weapons. You of all people should understand that.”

“Yes, but it’s different,” said Felicity. “I was born with this ability, but anyone could learn how to do what you do.” Odette and Alessio both opened their mouths, and she hastily cut them off. “Anyone who’s extremely brilliant.” The Grafters looked somewhat mollified.

“You have to understand, we are literally centuries ahead of mainstream science,” said Leliefeld. “Even if we released the knowledge to everyone, it wouldn’t make things better. It would make them worse. Mainstream culture is not ready for what we can do. That’s why the negotiations are not just about how much money we can keep and whether we can be called in to help put down a giant malevolent porcupine. Protections are being put in place about the knowledge we possess and what can be done with it. We are not going to be making house calls so that the moneyed classes of Great Britain get a few extra centuries.”

“So, no new eyes for the little boy,” said Felicity.

“No new eyes for the little boy,” agreed Leliefeld sadly. “But Marcel is looking at amping up his other senses, maybe throwing in a little rudimentary radar. People seem quite willing to believe in that sort of thing.”

“What about
that
guy?” asked Alessio as a new picture was flashed up. This one featured a man clawing at his own face. “Did you help him?”

“All right, I think it’s time we start getting ready,” said Leliefeld.

“But we’re not leaving for ages yet,” Alessio objected. “And
I
only take a few minutes to get dressed and ready.”

“Well, take them now,” said Leliefeld as she turned off the television. “We’re going to need the larger room, so you can get changed in Pawn Clements’s room.”

“But don’t touch anything,” said Felicity.

The boy grumped, but he hauled himself off the couch and into the bedroom. “I’d like it if he took a bit of time away from the news,” Leliefeld said to Felicity. “Plus, the hotel will be sending someone up to do our hair in a bit, and we want to be dressed by then.”

“They taught us at the Estate that you do makeup first, then hair, then gown, then shoes,” said Felicity cautiously. The Socializing with Civilians class at the Estate had always been her least favorite, but she’d managed to remember the order of preparations through the handy mnemonic Monsters Hate Getting Shot. She and her friends had actually made up an obscene variation, Monsters Hate Getting Shot In The Face, but she could remember only what the Face part stood for, and she didn’t anticipate any of
that
going on that evening.

“Yes, that’s how I normally do it,” said Leliefeld. “But these dresses are a bit complicated and I want them all settled before any civilians wander in.” She sat down in front of the mirror and began dotting foundation onto her face. Felicity expected her to start blending it together, but instead, the Grafter unbuttoned her top and took it off. Despite herself, Felicity ran her eyes over the other woman’s body, evaluating and comparing. The Grafter looked as if she went to the gym only when she remembered to, but she had a lack of self-consciousness that Felicity couldn’t help but envy. It was all very well having no shirt on when the entire team was getting changed in the back of a truck, but that was part of the job. Felicity had never been the type of girl to strip off casually in the changing rooms.

Then she noticed the scars.

Faint white lines ran down the length of the other woman’s arms, and a pink Y-shaped incision ran down from her shoulders and met between her breasts. A single line emerged from the bottom of her bra and continued to below her belt, a few lines stretching across her stomach. Felicity’s eyes widened, and then she noticed Leliefeld looking at her in the mirror. Blushing furiously, Felicity glanced away.

“Sorry,” she said.

“It’s fine, they
are
noticeable,” said Leliefeld. She began dotting foundation down the lines and across her chest. “I’m not embarrassed by them,” she said. Thoughtfully, she traced the line running down her chest. “Actually, I’m lucky to have them.”

“Sorry?” said Felicity.

“These are pretty recent,” said Leliefeld. “Marcel put the improvements in right before we came to London. It was a sign that they trusted me.”

“That’s great,” said Felicity in as convincing a manner as she could manage.

“Twenty-three hours under the knife,” mused the Grafter.

“That’s a lot of surgery.”

“You get used to it. I had my first major surgeries when I was eighteen.” She pointed at her face. “The new lenses put into my eyes and modifications to my facial muscles and my skin.”

“So that’s not your face?” blurted Felicity.

“No, it is my face,” said the Grafter firmly. “Just with some alterations behind the scenes.” She set about blending the foundation across her cheeks and down onto her chest and shoulders. “My friends and I used to work out modifications for each other, do each other’s surgeries, but they were almost always minor cosmetic things, one-offs for an evening.” She sounded amused by the memories, but Felicity’s flesh crawled at the thought.

“Oh, and Pim gave me these,” Leliefeld said, holding up her hands. Two sharp bone barbs slid out of her wrists.
Christ!
thought Felicity. “Birthday present. Although we all got them.” She regarded them for a moment, and then they withdrew back into her skin. Felicity couldn’t even see a mark where they had been.

“Anyway, I was scheduled for the next round of major modifications, but then my — then the Antagonists broke away.” Leliefeld kept up the blending, but now her voice had gone flat, unemotional. She finished the foundation and opened up a pot of powder that caught Felicity’s eye.

“That’s an unusual color for face powder, isn’t it?” asked Felicity uncertainly.

“It’s lavender,” said Leliefeld. “My friend Saskia picked it out for me months ago for the Carnevale di Viareggio.” She closed her eyes for a moment and put her hands flat on the dressing table. Then she opened her eyes and resumed laying out the cosmetics. “Like the woman in Sargent’s painting
Portrait of Madame X
. The only thing is, it needs to go over the right color of skin.” She stared into the mirror and frowned. Her skin grew a fraction paler through the foundation, and she began dusting the powder over herself.

“If you can change your skin, then why are you using makeup?” asked Felicity, curious despite herself.
It must be very convenient to have an Etch A Sketch for a face,
she thought.

“It’s a formal occasion.” Leliefeld shrugged. “My mother always says if you’re going to a fancy event, you go fancy. It’s good to be seen as making an effort.” She nodded at the makeup case. “You’re welcome to use anything you like in there, by the way.” Felicity felt her face freeze. “Don’t worry,” the Grafter assured her. “They’re all normal commercial cosmetics. Nothing biological. Not even any Botox.”

“I suppose I’d better,” said Felicity unwillingly. “I just don’t normally wear makeup.”

“Well, you don’t need it,” said the Grafter. “You have that great English skin. If you need any help...”

“They taught us how to do it,” said Felicity firmly.
It was right after jujitsu class and right before algebra.
Not wanting to appear too done up — she was only a Pawn, after all, and it wouldn’t be appropriate for her to try to look on the same level as her protectee — Felicity quickly brushed on some blush and lip gloss.

Once Leliefeld had applied her more elaborate makeup, she went to the closet and produced two long dress bags. She unzipped the coverings and seemed a little shy as she held up the gowns for inspection. Felicity peered at them and wondered if there was a way she could justify going back to the Blue Dress of Despair.

It was not immediately apparent what the dresses were supposed to look like, but a first glance revealed various problems. To begin with, they were identical, which sent a somewhat disquieting message. Deep purple, the garments had no specific shape and seemed to slump morosely from the hangers with far too much material. Admittedly, the cloth was beautiful, with a texture that cried out to be touched, but...

When she said
complicated,
I thought they would look nice,
thought Felicity.
Or at least that they would look like dresses. These look like the winding sheets of morbidly obese fashion editors.

“You want to wear purple?” asked Felicity in surprise, interrupting her own train of thought.

“No, but — you don’t like purple?” asked Leliefeld.

“Well,” said Felicity. “Um.” She pursed her lips and tried to think of a tactful explanation. “The thing is, we don’t normally wear purple in the Checquy. It’s reserved for the livery of the personal staff of the Court members.”

“I see,” said the Grafter. “I think I remember something about that.”

“But I’m sure it’ll be fine,” said Felicity hurriedly.
Crap, I’ve just rubbished her party dress,
she thought.
An hour before we’re supposed to leave.

“It definitely won’t do,” said Leliefeld decidedly. From the little fridge, she took out a polished wooden case that looked as if it contained the world’s nicest electric toothbrush or possibly the world’s nicest vibrator. Instead, it contained two rows of tiny glass vials nestled in velvet and a slim hypodermic needle made of brass and glass.

What the hell?
thought Felicity, taking a step back. Odette drew a few drops of the liquid into the needle and then injected it into a fold of one dress. Dark veins of color spread out from the injection, bleeding throughout the material until the entire garment was a deep, dark, glorious green.

“Better?” Leliefeld asked, and Felicity nodded weakly.

“How did you do that?”

“You mean the colors? Yeah, it’s cool, isn’t it? What color would you like? I can make it whatever you want.”

“But how?”

“The material has chromatophores woven through it,” said Leliefeld. “They’re color-changing cells. We lifted them from a selection of octopuses and cuttlefish.”

“Oh, clever,” said Felicity.
I’ll be wearing a cuttlefish?
“Um, well, maybe something light, then?” If they had to be wearing the same shapeless dress, at the very least they could be in different colors, and the instructors in Attire at the Estate had always said pastels suited her.