Back then, women were laced into their garments. Mrs. Smith’s corsets enhanced her tiny waist. The low-cut necklines of her gowns showed off her lush breasts. Layers of crinoline under her full skirts made her look like she was gliding instead of walking. The bustles on the backs of her gowns accentuated the swaying of her hips.
Like other wealthy women of the late 1800s, Mrs. Smith’s dresses were made of the finest materials. She owned gowns of every color. They were custom-made out of silk, taffeta, and velvet and embellished with lace or exquisite embroidery. She favored items in dark purple, a color reserved for the upper classes.
In addition to her gowns, gloves, shawls, and hats, she had a box stuffed with jewelry. Emerald and diamond necklaces. Jet chokers. Jade bracelets. Pearl earrings. A ruby brooch. Opal pendants. Tortoiseshell and diamond hair combs. She had several tiaras. She needed a separate chest for all of her gold jewelry, and no one ever saw her wear the same piece twice.
Fresh orchids were delivered to her house on a regular basis, and she always pinned the deep purple flowers to her dress or had them woven into her hair before she went out. The flower’s shape and color reminded her of an ochre sea star.
Back then, securing a wardrobe had been easy. Dressmakers, milliners, jewelers, shoemakers, perfumers, chemists, and florists came to her. She had servants to dress her, apply her makeup, and style her hair. She paid three times the going rate and deliberately sought out individuals who were mute, deaf, or so desperate for money that she knew she could rely on their discretion.
She did not require their services for long. Even at the height of her powers, she abhorred having to maintain a human form. But it could take many months to stimulate her reproductive cycle and put her finances in order. As impatient as she always was to return to the water, she had to make provisions for her future. During this time, she purchased coastal properties, invested in gold, and sold precious relics harvested from the ocean floor to rich private collectors.
Mrs. Smith never wanted for funds. Her coin collection alone was worth millions. For centuries, she’d pilfered shipwrecks for treasures, accumulating an extraordinary horde of riches. She could open a lockbox hidden in any number of sea caves and pluck out a Persian daric, a Spanish doubloon, or a gold aureus from Rome. By selling a few coins, she gained enough capital to ornament herself, hire servants, and invest in the future.
A century ago, she purchased land along Long Island’s North Shore, properties on the Connecticut and Massachusetts coasts, and a private island in Maine. Her assets were managed by the Bank of New York. Her current financial advisor believed her to be the granddaughter of the Mrs. Smith who’d once done business with his grandfather.
On Monday, she’d instructed her advisor to transfer twenty thousand dollars to her checking account. After ending the call, she’d unlocked her wall safe and counted her cash.
Confident that she had enough to purchase a basic wardrobe, she’d begun studying beauty and fashion magazines as well as clothing catalogs. She’d torn pages from Neiman Marcus, Saks Fifth Avenue, and Lord & Taylor catalogs.
These stores were familiar to Mrs. Smith. Having flipped through such publications for years, she’d grown accustomed to the idea that clothing was no longer tailored to the individual but bought “off the rack.” However, she didn’t want items made to fit any body. She wanted pieces designed just for her—clothing that would help her outshine all other women.
And yet, time was of the essence. The yacht club cocktail party would take place in ten days. During this event, she would select her mates. After that, there was the man-child’s bar mitzvah, and the awakening of Mrs. Smith’s full power. In between these two significant occasions, she needed to meet with her banker and lawyers. She needed to make provisions for her offspring.
Even if it meant her own death, Mrs. Smith had decided toreproduce. She would devour as many Pure Ones as she could. Then, when she was freshly reborn and brimming with power and vitality, she’d swim to the underwater cave on her island in Maine and tear herself in two.
However, she couldn’t go outside in her human form without the correct attire. The chests of clothes that had languished in her house since the 1880s hadn’t aged well. The dresses were moth-eaten. The chemises and slips were yellow with age.
She’d have to build a wardrobe from scratch, but first, she needed to decide what her human form should look like. The ideal body shape of a female in 1982 was taller, slimmer, and more athletic than the women of the Gilded Age. Brows were bushy and dark. Lashes were thick and curled. Lips were full. Cheekbones were high. Teeth were big, square, and white as ship sails.
The women on Mrs. Smith’s bathroom floor, smiling out from the covers ofVogue,Harper’s Bazaar, andCosmopolitan, looked healthy and confident. Their gazes were both knowing and playful. They were beautiful and ambitious. They were more powerful than the women who’d come before.
Mrs. Smith could easily adapt their more desirable physical features, but she also had to dress, move, and speak in such a way that every human in her sphere would feel compelled to please her. Especially the men. Men like Don Pulaski.
Mrs. Smith had seen Don’s blonde mate come and go from the Bernstein and Scott houses. She was short and busty with a cloud of honey-colored hair. In contrast, Mrs. Smith would make herself taller. Her limbs would be long and toned. Her dark hair would fall in soft waves down her back.
With the power of the Pure Ones’ blood coursing through her veins, she could transform into any of the women she saw on the magazine covers. She could be Linda Evangelista, Jerry Hall, Carol Alt, Christie Brinkley, Cindy Crawford, IsabellaRossellini, or Princess Diana. But as her gaze swept across face after face, the one she kept coming back to belonged to a blue-eyed brunette named Brooke Shields.
Mrs. Smith decided to make herself look like a slightly more mature version of this young woman. She would choose a different eye color, too. In the waterways of the world, blue eyes were found only on an inconsequential Australian fish—a weak sliver of a creature that spent its short life feeding on mosquito larvae.
According toVogue, beauty required an arsenal of cosmetics. To resemble Brooke Shields, Mrs. Smith would have to create a smoky eye. This was achieved with powdered eyeshadow, mascara, and heavy black gel liner on the upper and lower lids. This bold look, reminiscent of the kohl used by Egyptian queens, was one of drama and glamour.
Other makeup trends included bright pink, metallic, or red lips. Sometimes, the lips were heavily lined. Blush was applied generously to the cheeks to create lift and brightness. Nail color often matched the lips. Mrs. Smith studied the popular pinks—which ranged from fuchsia to plum to bubblegum—but didn’t like any of them. The shades reminded her of seahorses or sea anemones.
She surveyed the bold palettes from Revlon, L’Oréal, Max Factor, Estée Lauder, and Elizabeth Arden. She dismissed the products made by CoverGirl and Maybelline because they were too pedestrian. Too affordable. Everything she bought must be of the highest quality. She had to light up a room like a firefly squid in a black ocean, to sparkle like a gossamer worm.
This was why she studied the current fashion trends so carefully. In her realm, creatures didn’t see in color. The deeper they swam, the darker it became.
In the water, it was best to be as black as a starless night. The women in the magazines wore electrifying shades of pink,orange, red, and yellow. Their clothes had bright patterns, like those of a flame angelfish or the mandarin dragonet. They resembled a coral reef habitat, these women in their wide-shouldered blouses with irregular stripes. They looked like clownfish and guppies, purple firefish and royal grammas.
Mrs. Smith remembered the tropics well, though she hadn’t swum in warm waters for centuries. She preferred the solitude and safety of the Arctic. In this black and frigid world, light was more magical than color. And the only visible light produced by creatures in the deepest, most secret ocean trenches was blue. A blinding, electric blue. That would be her color of power for this cycle.
Now that she’d made this decision, all she had to do was find the right dress for the yacht club cocktail party. She flipped through more magazines, which were already dimpled from moisture, and examined designs by men like Karl Lagerfeld, Yves Saint Laurent, and Giorgio Armani. She tore out photo after photo of outfits designed by Perry Ellis and Oscar de la Renta, balling them up and tossing them to the side.
Nothing seemed timeless. Nothing seduced her senses. The dresses were neither fluid in movement nor flawless in construction.
The only designer who came close to her ideal was Dior. He’d made a satin dress in royal blue with beaded velvet floral appliqués. The beads curled up one side of the gown, from just above the ankle to just below the left breast. The serpentine tendrils reminded Mrs. Smith of the oriental bittersweet vines growing wild in her woods.
It’ll have to do.
