The tailor, a woman in an emerald-green pantsuit that might’ve been considered lavish if it weren’t for the stiff fabric, laced a tape measure around her neck.
Her brow ticked the moment she looked at Elara, the only break in her cheery demeanor.
“What can I do for you?” she asked.
“My Aunt Blanche needs her favorite dress hemmed,” Elara intoned.
“How soon does she need it?”
“Four weeks.”
The tailor waved. “Come to the back and let’s see what we can do.”
Elara followed into a room filled with bolts upon bolts of bland fabric.
“Thought you’d never be back,” the woman grunted as she shovedone of the walls just enough for Elara to wriggle behind and into a darkened space.
“Just a visit, Madame Landry.”
“That’s what they all say.”
The wall slid closed, blocking most of the light and concealing Elara in a noise-smothered hallway. It ran far back enough to cut into a new building, the wood of the tailor shop turning to the brick of the next. Stairs took her down to a familiar green door.
There, Elara inhaled deeply and stepped in.
Music overwhelmed the silence, swirling around her, lifting her hair and the folds of her brown skirts. It lightened her spirits, caused her to stagger out of the stairwell and into a world that had once been intoxicating to a rage-filled fourteen-year-old orphan.
The parties had been an escape, and the endless drinks and dark booths perfect for kissing to numb the pain. Étoiles was where she’d tried to outrun her grief with Fernand.
A thick arm blocked her path, yanking her from the revelry and to the tall man in an ill-bleached gray suit.
“Invitation?” he asked.
Elara’s brow rose. “What?”
This was new. Étoiles was a mediocre dance club conveniently hidden beneath a loyal and well-paid tailor. It was a place Fernand and his would-be rebels could gather and get drunk.
“Elara?” a sharp voice called from behind the man’s shoulders.
“Nicolette,” Elara muttered. “You’re still here?”
“Never left.” She was still as slender as a knife, with shining black hair cropped at a severe angle around her powdered cheeks. She’d taken Fernand’s approach to dressing, however. Her bleached trousers were sharply pressed and a too-large vest draped to her knees. The blouse beneath gave her a romantically unkempt look that would’ve beendisastrous on anyone else. High fashion from what was supposed to be degrading.
Nicolette floated an arm around the guard to reveal a flash of wrist and a sparkling red tattoo. Something Elara woulddefinitelynot call jealousy flared in her chest at the sight of it.
“Here.” Elara tugged her lapel, and the man stepped aside immediately.
The tattoos had been an experiment from one of Fernand’s artist friends, who wanted to test a new type of magie that would remain dormant until the ink was activated. In theory, all she or Fernand would have to do was think of the other and touch it, and it would send out a flare. Elara had found the permanent connection romantic.
Then Nicolette got one. And Jacques. And another half dozen of Fernand’s cronies.
Electric lights dangled overhead like stars against a midnight canopy made of bleached fabrics. Dancers and patrons whirled around one another, laughing as they passed booze and cigarettes.
Onstage, the band thundered out a fevered tune while a singer belted about a drunken painter falling in love with his own creation. Their golden dress flickered like stardust in the light, the fabric elegantly bleached in stripes.
The newness spread to the wall opposite the lounge seats. There, more tents were set up, but they weren’t color coded as The Market above was. These were also bleached and dyed in swirling colors: purple and gold, red and green, beige and silver.
Elara passed by slowly, taking stock of the signs and wares.
