And then I scream.
I scream until I feel the earth move beneath my feet, until I feel the wind change directions. I scream until the walls collapse, until I feel the electricity spark, until I feel the lights catch fire. I scream until the ground fissures, until all falls down.
And then we carry my sister home.
EPILOGUE
WARNER
one.
The wall is unusually white.
More white than is usual. Most people think white walls are true white, but the truth is, they only seem white, and are not actually white. Most shades of white are mixed in with a bit of yellow, which helps soften the harsh edges of a pure white, making it more of an ecru, or ivory. Various shades of cream. Egg white, even. True white is practically intolerable as a color, so white it’s nearly blue.
This wall, in particular, is not so white as to be offensive, but a sharp enough shade of white to pique my curiosity, which is nothing short of a miracle, really, because I’ve been staring at it for the greater part of an hour. Thirty-seven minutes, to be exact.
I am being held hostage by custom. Formality.
“Five more minutes,” she says. “I promise.”
I hear the rustle of fabric. Zippers. A shudder of—
“Is that tulle?”
“You’re not supposed to be listening!”
“You know, love, it occurs to me now that I’ve lived through actual hostage situations far less torturous than this.”
“Okay, okay, it’s off. Packed away. I just need a second to put on my cl—”
“That won’t be necessary,” I say, turning around. “Surely this part, I should be allowed to watch.”
I lean against the unusually white wall, studying her as she frowns at me, her lips still parted around the shape of a word she seems to have forgotten.
“Please continue,” I say, gesturing with a nod. “Whatever you were doing before.”
She holds on to her frown for a moment longer than is honest, her eyes narrowing in a show of frustration that is pure fraud. She compounds this farce by clutching an article of clothing to her chest, feigning modesty.
I do not mind, not one single bit.
I drink her in, her soft curves, her smooth skin. Her hair is beautiful at any length, but it’s been longer lately. Long and rich, silky against her skin, and when I’m lucky—against mine.
Slowly, she drops the shirt.
I suddenly stand up straighter.
“I’m supposed to wear this under the dress,” she says, her fake anger already forgotten. She fidgets with the boning of a cream-colored corset, her fingers lingering absently along the garter belt, the lace-trimmed stockings. She can’t meet my eyes. She’s gone suddenly shy, and this time, it’s real.
Do you like it?
The unspoken question.
I assumed, when she invited me into this dressing room, that it was for reasons beyond me staring at the color variations in an unusually white wall. I assumed she wanted me here to see something.
To see her.
I see now that I was correct.
