“Because, my dear, we are without armor. And beauty is its own armor. Trust me.”
ZOFIA WAS EXTREMELYitchy.
“I hate this,” she declared, plucking at one of the outfits Laila had shoved her into.
It was a nice enough color. Pale pink. With frills around the bodice and a neckline that felt at once scratchy and ticklish.
“Garments are an art,” said Laila, walking briskly.
“I’ll never get out of it.”
“As it so happens, some would consider disrobing an art too.”
Zofia grumbled, but kept up her pace. It was nearly nighttime. Lights spilled out across the Seine River. Up ahead loomed the Eiffel Tower, the entrance to the Exposition. Zofia had watched the Tower being built, growing from scaffolding to spire. It was a bold, staggering lattice of rivets and steel bolts. No one would call it beautiful, but that hardly mattered to Zofia. Beauty did not move her. But the Eiffel Tower did. It was immensely awkward. If the streets looked sewn together with a neat hand, la Tour Eiffel was the ungainly needle pinning it all into place. It lanced through the grand boulevards, elegant cupolas, and buildings draped in sculpted gods. It would never blend in, but always demand witnessing. Zofia suspected that if la Tour Eiffel could talk, they would understand each other perfectly.
Past the Eiffel Tower stretched out the Esplanade des Invalides. Even in the dark, Zofia felt her breath catch. It was as if she were no longer in Paris. Gone were the familiar boulevards and docile cafés with their wicker chairs. Now, sprawling tents covered the streets. On the sidewalk were low tables crowded with water pipes. Men in robes and women with their heads covered walked briskly down the cobbled lanes.
Laila pointed out the water fountain, the bell-shaped minaret, and the mosque paneled with bright blue tiles. Around it were salons and restaurants. The tang of unfamiliar food coated the air so thickly that Zofia was tempted to stick out her tongue.
“We’re on Cairo Street,” said Laila, keeping her voice low.
Although Paris was full of tourists, the Exposition had not yet officially opened, and the streets were empty, save for the very wealthy who had procured tickets early. Small units of guards carefully patrolled the spaces, making sure no one had snuck in before it was open to the public. On the other side of the street, Zofia spied a handful of guards walking toward them.
“Act calm,” said Laila under her breath. “You look like anyone else. As if you belong here, so there’s no reason for them to feel alarmed. And underno circumstancesshould you take off running.”
A guard strolled up to them. Zofia thought he would direct his questions to Laila, but he didn’t. He acted as if she wasn’t there at all.
“I’m afraid you and your maid can’t be here, Mademoiselle,” he said to Zofia. “We have been having some troubles with security—there was a disturbance here a week ago. We will have to ask you to remove yourself to a different sector of the Exposition Universelle.”
Beside Zofia, Laila stiffened.
“She isn’t my maid,” said Zofia automatically.
Laila winced. And Zofia realized that was not what she was supposed to say. “I mean—”
Another guard started walking toward them. His eyebrows were slanted down.
“Mademoiselle, what’s your name?” asked the first guard.
“I… I…”
Zofia tugged nervously at the silken sheath cover on her dress. Hidden in her sleeve was a box of matches. There were sharp spurs concealed in the heels of her shoes. But she didn’t want to use them.
Laila jumped in. “My mistress does not simply hand over her name like some common token!”
The first guard looked taken aback. “I meant no offense—”
“You should apologize anyway!” scolded Laila.
“It’s just that she seems to match a description for a person involved with the recent disturbance. A girl, of about her height. With white-blond hair. It’s not a very common coloring.”
“She is a rare and exquisite flower,” said Laila, tugging on Zofia’s arm. “Let us go, Madame. We were lost, is all—”
“If she could but stay a moment longer, my colleague will be able to confirm that she is not the woman we seek. I am dreadfully sorry, but protocol is quite strict before opening day.”
Zofia recognized the second guard approaching them. He was the one who had cradled his friend who died at the hands of the man with the blade-brimmed hat. The man stopped short when he saw her. His hand went to the Forged device at his hip.
Zofia grabbed Laila’s arm.
