They were in the attic at the Fallow estate, a surprisingly low-ceilinged and musty space, sifting through various piles of antiques in the hopes of assembling some costumes that would, with any luck, remain unrecognizable to the rest of the ball-going public. So far, they hadn’t found anything useful.
Daphne looked up from the sword cane she’d just unearthed from beneath a rocking chair and frowned.
“I didn’t realize you had such a penchant for hoarding curated books.”
“I don’t,” Zada said, “but maybe entering the order would be less of a headache than all of this.” Zada had been reluctant to make the climb to the attic in the first place. Something about poking around the Fallows’ ancestral artifacts made her nervous. She kept half expecting Daphne to come face-to-face with some terrible reminder of Iphigenia Fallow, her missing mother.
But Daphne only said, “Don’t even joke about that, Zades. What a waste.”
“Would it really be, though?” said Zada, cracking open anancient trunk blanketed in dust bunnies. “I’m fairly confident Buford would be better off without me.”
“I’m not talking about your Heartsong match,” said Daphne. “I meant that the triple cello isn’t allowed in the Order, right? It’d be a shame for you to lose that. The whole world should get to hear you play in an orchestra.”
“True,” said Zada.
Daphne bent down to join her in scrutinizing the contents of the trunk.
“Check out this suit!” Daphne said, pushing aside a voluminous gold-colored dress to unearth a black jacket and trousers. The resulting outfit was of a cut so old as to almost be new again, a loose, flowing quality to the fabric except for a set of fearsome shoulder pads. She slipped on the jacket and spun around. “What do you think?”
The pinstriped fabric and wide lapels were unlike anything Zada had seen except for fuzzy stills from history class: something about the bootleggers who had been the scourge of Prohibition and punished accordingly. It looked good, or rather, Daphne made it look good.
“It’ll do,” said Zada.
Daphne ran to the ancient, cloudy mirror and winked at her reflection. “It most certainly will. Look at my shoulders! And to think you didn’t even want us to snoop around up here!”
“It wasn’t that,” said Zada.
Daphne twisted in the mirror. “What was it, then?”
“So it’s not—you’re all right being up here, then?” Zada asked, hesitant.
“What do you mean?” Daphne turned back to face her.
Zada sighed. “I don’t—I’m not trying to—”
“Ah,” said Daphne. “You’re worried being among my family’s old things will bring me face-to-face with the ghost of my mother?”
“Well,” said Zada. “Yes.”
“Not to worry.” Daphne slid off the jacket. “This entire floor is free of any trace of her. I know, I checked many times. It must have all gone straight down the incinerator.”
There was nothing surprising about that. It was standard practice with people who were Extricated. But Zada still said, “I’m sorry, Daphne.”
Daphne picked her way over to an old wooden wardrobe and threw open the doors.
“I just wish I had more memories of her,” she said quietly. “Even a vicious fight or something. But I can’t recall her ever laying down the law or getting into an argument. When I remember her, I think of her smiling out the window, tears streaming down her face. She didn’t seem to even notice she was crying. I used to think she was just an unusually peaceful person, but when I got older, I realized—”
“Counseling?” Zada guessed.
Daphne nodded, her focus on the tangle of garments in the wardrobe. She picked out an elegant green cloak, scrutinized it, then put it back.
“It wasn’t really her, I don’t think,” she said finally. “It was just a side effect of being Counseled.” She sighed. “All I really know about her is her worst mistake.”
“She must’ve been more than that.”
“No way to know now,” said Daphne softly. “Here, try this on.” She spun around holding an old-fashioned frock coat,dispelling the quiet moment as quickly as she’d conjured it.
The coat was exquisitely embroidered in greens and blues with magnificent draping sleeves.
