“Caspian’s note told me to bring it to you,” I said.
For a second, she looked exactly as hurt as she was.
Then she corrected it.
I wished I hadn’t seen it.
“He got to the dress before it reached you,” she said.
“Apparently.”
“I’m glad.”
But she didn’t sound glad. She sounded sad.
I took the note from inside my coat and handed it over.
Cosima read it.
Then she folded it along the same lines Caspian had made and gave it back.
“Keep that on you.”
“As evidence?”
“As leverage. Evidence is what people call leverage after someone powerful agrees to read it.”
“You do make the world sound so friendly all the time.”
She reached for the box.
I caught her wrist before I meant to.
Cosima’s eyes dropped to my hand and I let go.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” she said. “It is your mother’s dress.”
That was the cruelest kindness she could have chosen.
She let me open the box.
The dress still lay under the tissue, beautiful enough to make betrayal look tasteful.
Cosima didn’t touch it at first.
She studied it the way she studied everything: as if the dress were a document with a hidden code she had to decipher.
“Show me.”
I folded the tissue back from the left sleeve.
Cosima’s lips drew down.
“Yes, I see,” she said.
“Yes, Caspian was right, or yes, my evening is about to get even worse?”
