Stiletto (70 page)

“I have an idea,” said Leliefeld. She spent a few moments filling the hypodermic. Unlike the color for her dress, this one seemed to require extracts from a number of vials. She then shook the syringe hard before injecting it into Felicity’s gown. The reaction this time was different, with ripples of pale green expanding through the fabric. Leliefeld regarded the process, frowning, and in a few places injected more of the solution. Finally, she was satisfied, and the dress was now a soft, delicate sea-foam green. It was nothing Felicity would ever have picked out for herself, but it was lovely. As she watched, the other girl took up a cotton bud, dipped it into one of the vials, and began tracing it over the bodice of the dress. Glittering silver lines appeared in its wake.

“You can do metals.”

“They’re iridophores,” said Leliefeld. “Do you like it? I can do something different if you’d prefer.”

“No, it’s beautiful,” said Felicity, and it was.

“Great. I’ll put mine on first, and then we’ll do yours.” Leliefeld took the dark green dress off the hanger and stepped into it awkwardly. The acreage of material was not easy to navigate through, and she seemed to be having trouble finding the floor. Felicity stepped forward and held some of the cloth out of the way.

Eventually, the Grafter had the dress on, but she was not a prepossessing sight. The garment hung off her in baggy folds and spread out on the floor in drifts of surplus material. It looked like a parachute or a cover for a king-size bed.

“It’s... very flattering,” said Felicity finally.
Maybe this is the new look in Belgium.

“That’s tactful of you, but I’m not finished,” said the Grafter, sounding amused as she sprayed the dress lightly with perfume. She turned to regard herself in the mirror and ran a gentle finger down her side, stroking the fabric. It drew itself up against her, tightening and holding its shape. Felicity gasped in surprise.

For the next few minutes, Leliefeld sculpted the gown around herself. She drew it in at her bust and waist, tightened the folds around her middle, and corrected the fall of the cloth to the floor. The cloth contracted with a faint whispering sound. When she was finished, the dress looked as if it had been designed specifically for her. The material pooled slightly around her feet, curving a little behind her like liquid. Combined with the faint lavender powder she had dusted on her skin earlier, it was beautifully exotic.

“That’s amazing,” said Felicity weakly. “So... it’s alive?”

“Yes,” said Leliefeld cheerfully. Felicity’s stomach turned over at the idea. Suddenly, she had an overpowering urge to wash her hands.

“And it just responds to your touch?” she asked. The Grafter nodded proudly. “But how does it know when to stop? What if someone brushes against you at the party?”
Would it fall off if someone hugged you? Would it crush you if you stepped on the hem?

“I just put it to sleep,” said Leliefeld. She picked up a different perfume bottle and sprayed a tiny amount onto the base of her gown. “The dress will hold its shape, but it won’t react to any more input until I wake it up. Oh, except it automatically absorbs wine stains, which is very handy.” She turned around slowly. “Are there any loose folds? It’s always hard to tell right at the back.”

“No, it looks beautiful,” said Felicity truthfully.

“Thank you,” said Leliefeld. “Now, let’s get you into yours.” Felicity froze for a moment, absolutely appalled at the idea but trapped by the unbreakable manacles of Good Manners.

The gown felt like cool silk and closed snugly around Felicity’s chest, and she was reminded of an ill-advised hens’ night when they’d all worn corsets. Not uncomfortable, exactly, but certainly not something you could relax in. Leliefeld regarded her thoughtfully for a moment and then stepped forward and sprayed the dress with the first perfume.

“Read nothing into this,” said the Grafter, and she drew a finger briskly across Felicity’s bust and then back under. At her touch, the material gathered itself up, supporting and restraining. It occurred to a shamefully ungrateful part of Felicity’s mind that, if Leliefeld wanted to, she need merely flick her wrist, and the gown would clench about the Pawn and crush her to death. For all Felicity knew, it might then soak up all the blood and hoover up the bones.

Of course, nothing of the sort happened, and Leliefeld fussed around Felicity for a few more minutes. She drew out billows and cinched in folds. “You’d better put on your shoes,” the Grafter said, “so I can fix the hem.” A pair of high heels had been sent along with the Blue Dress of Despair, but Felicity did not bother opening the box, opting for a pair of well-broken-in Kevlar-toed work boots.

“Seriously?” asked Leliefeld.

“Absolutely,” said Felicity. “I haven’t worn heels in a year except at Ascot, and it was agony.”
Besides, I want to be able to kick hard if anything happens.
“Can you make this work?”

“Sure,” said Leliefeld and drew the hem of the gown a little lower to conceal the boots. She then sprayed the garment with the sleep-inducing scent. At last the two of them looked in the mirror. It was remarkable. Although their dresses had begun identical, they were now completely different in color and form.

“Not bad,” said Leliefeld, pleased.

“Not bad at all,” agreed Felicity. “Thanks.” She realized that she felt at ease — more so than she could recently remember being. Unconsciously, she’d been unclenching her powers, letting down the barriers she usually kept up. Because the dress was alive, she didn’t need to worry about getting caught up in its history.
What an amazing thing.
She absently stroked the skirt and was startled when the faintest of vibrations trembled through the material. It was so gentle that the cloth didn’t move, but she felt it on her skin.

“Is it purring?” she asked Leliefeld.

“It likes you.”

A knock at the door proved to be Alessio announcing that the hairdresser had arrived. A woman in her thirties, she went into raptures over both of them. She worked quickly and did a nice job of arranging their hair into flattering styles. Leliefeld tipped the woman a generous amount, and Felicity tipped her absolutely nothing except an embarrassed smile because she did not have any money, only a corporate credit card.

Alessio was wearing a normal, nonliving tuxedo of which he was extremely proud. Leliefeld and Felicity duly complimented him on it. Just then a Checquy guard knocked and advised them that their car was waiting in the basement parking lot. Feeling very smart indeed, the three of them set off.

When the car arrived at Apex House, the two Grafters and the Pawn looked up in fascination. Multicolored lights illuminated the building, with patterns projected onto the surfaces so that one moment it looked as if it were covered in glowing Byzantine mosaics and the next as if it were blanketed with snow.

“Lovely, but it’s not very discreet,” remarked Leliefeld.

“I expect the public think it’s art,” said Felicity. “There will probably be a cranky letter or two in the
Times
about a frivolous waste of taxpayer money.” They disembarked and walked through the front doors. The lobby was quiet; there were guards at the desks, but they waved the three of them through.

Felicity knew that the limousines carrying the Grafter delegation had been carefully staggered so that the guests would enter only in small groups. Rook Thomas would scan each individual, checking to see if anyone was wearing someone else’s face. Felicity looked around curiously for the Rook but saw no trace of her.

She must be tucked away somewhere by the entrance,
Felicity mused.
Perhaps in some hidey-hole.
It was common knowledge in the Checquy that Apex House had been designed to be a fortress as much as an office, and the building was presumed to possess a multitude of hidden features. The murder-holes in the ceiling, cunningly concealed, were always pointed out to visiting students from the Estate.

In the atrium, the massive central doors stood open, welcoming them into the heart of the building. They proceeded through them and walked along a grand corridor until they came to a shallow flight of broad steps leading down to the assembly hall. Music and chatter floated up to them.

On either side of the doors were four soldiers of the Barghests standing at attention in their dress uniform of crimson and white plate armor. They bore no arms, and as was the custom, their hands were ungloved.

“Do we need to stop?” asked Leliefeld uncertainly. Alessio’s eyes were wide as he regarded the forbidding warriors.

“Nah,” said one of them, his Cockney accent echoing out from behind his visor. “It’s just tradition to have us here. Go on in, have a nice time at the party.”

“You might sneak us out some hors d’oeuvres, though, if you get the chance,” said another one in a thick Scottish accent.

A nice time?
thought Felicity grimly.
Please.
She looked out on the huge hall with its ceiling of curved golden wood. The far wall was a massive curtain of glass that revealed the carefully cultivated gardens beyond. The room was filled with beautifully dressed people. At one side, an orchestra played by a dance floor on which couples had already gathered. The rest of the room was filled with guests moving about and conversing.
It’s like walking down the steps into hell.

As they descended the stairs, a rustle went through the crowd, and dozens of faces turned to stare at them.

“Why are they looking at us like that?” said Felicity out of the corner of her mouth.

“Well, I’m
hoping
they’re staring at you because you’re gorgeous,” said Leliefeld in low tones. “I have a bad feeling, though, that they’re staring at me with the expectation that I’ll fall flat on my face again.”

“You’re both idiots,” said Alessio serenely. “They’re all looking at me in my James Bond tux.”

“How well does this gown deal with sweat?” asked Felicity, who was feeling very damp in the pits and lower back.

“It absorbs it and uses the salts and nutrients to launder itself,” said Leliefeld.

“It will be very clean by the end of this evening, then.”

They were not the first Grafters to arrive, and Felicity noted with interest that the normal orders of precedence had been dropped. She saw Sir Henry talking to a tall man with excellent hair. Lady Farrier was actually out on the dance floor, moving in a slow but stately waltz with a nervous-looking young Pawn whom Felicity recognized as having been in the year behind her at the Estate. She also recognized several of the Grafters who had arrived before them.

“Okay, well, now I suppose we mingle,” said Leliefeld. “Do you see anyone you know?” she asked Felicity hopefully.

“Not really,” said Felicity. “That’s the headmistress of the Estate over there, but she seems quite engaged in conversation with your head of security.”

“Who
are
all these people?” asked Alessio nervously.

“Mostly high-ranking Checquy,” said Felicity, scanning the crowd. “Heads of departments, some division heads, and chiefs from different regional offices. Quite a few people from the Diplomatic section — your friend Pawn Bannister is right over there.” The Grafter siblings automatically turned to look and received a flat stare from the Pawn.

“Well,
that
wasn’t very diplomatic,” said Leliefeld.

“He’s probably annoyed about losing his minder gig,” said Felicity. “Oh, there are also some very important civilians here tonight. That’s the chief of the defence staff over there at the bar, and there’s the archbishop of Canterbury talking with Bishop Alrich.” At the mention of the vampire Bishop, she heard Alessio give the tiniest moan.

“Who’s the blind man who’s just coming in?” asked Leliefeld.

“I don’t know,” said Felicity, “but the dog he’s escorting is the ruler of one of the Channel Islands. Let’s see, who else is here? There’s the chancellor of Oxford, the chief constable of Police Scotland, the first minister of Wales, and the mayor of Stowmarket. Oh, and Lady Farrier is now dancing with the chief rabbi.” A waiter bearing a tray of drinks materialized by them.

“Thank God,” said Leliefeld.

“Miss Leliefeld, I brought you a grapefruit juice specially,” said the waiter.

“Huh?”

“Rook Thomas informed us of your throat problems,” said the waiter. His expression did not change as the Grafter woman unwillingly accepted the proffered drink. Felicity, in a move of solidarity that even
she
didn’t expect, took a glass of orange juice. Alessio made a move toward a glass of wine, but a hissed remark from his sister redirected him toward a soft drink.

“Evening,” said Security Chief Clovis as he came up to them. “Ladies, your gowns are beautiful.”

“Thank you,” said Leliefeld. Felicity smiled weakly.

“Are you enjoying the party?” asked the security chief.

“It’s much bigger than I expected,” said Leliefeld. Then her eyes widened. “Is Sir Henry talking to who I think he’s talking to?”

“Who? Wait, that’s the Prime Minister!” exclaimed Felicity.

“He looks pissed off,” said Leliefeld.

“Yes, well, a terrorist attack on one’s soil will do that,” said Felicity.

“But why is he here?” asked Alessio. “Shouldn’t he be doing prime-ministerial things about the Blinding? Like figuring out what the source was?”

“We already know what the source of the fogs was,” said Clovis.

“You
do?
” asked Alessio in surprise. “What was it?”

Felicity caught a glimpse of Odette’s horrified face. The Grafter girl’s eyes were wide as she looked at Clovis pleadingly.
So, Alessio doesn’t know about the Antagonists
.

“Oh, I’m afraid it’s classified,” said Clovis awkwardly. “But we do know it falls within our area of responsibility, and we are obliged to inform the Prime Minister of the truth. As far as the public are concerned, the Prime Minister is currently
in camera
at Number Ten consulting with the heads of the various intelligence agencies, most of whom are also here, eating little pastries filled with salmon.”