I pulled the laces closed at the back and stood in the mirror, regarding myself. It felt like something out of a dream. An illusion. The white reflected in the candlelight off my skin, making it seem like I was more luminous than I could ever hope to be. My hair hung unbound over my shoulder, and my blistered feet were hidden. I stood up straight and moved my callused hands behind my back.
For a moment, I had a glimpse of what I would have been like if I had lived another life.
Not that I wanted to be married. Elijah had asked me and I'd said no. Plain unions were made of duty and solemnity. Submission to God and one's husband. A pragmatic statement of commitment before the community. I had always felt that there was a bit of resignation to it. But this dress and what it represented seemed something apart from that, a fairy tale made of spun sugar.
For now, no one was watching, and I sank into that illusion, reveling in it. I tried to memorize every bit of it, from the weight of the skirt to the feeling of satin against my skin. I gave a twirl, and the skirt moved as if it had a life of its own. Maybe that was the idea.
But the illusion was too heavy. I struggled to get the dress off, feeling as if it had devoured me, was smothering me. I fought through layers of lace until I could breathe again.
In the end, I picked a dark blue dress for my date with Alex. It was the one I felt most comfortable in. I had no idea if it was considered stylish or not. It was made of a softly draping column of fabric, pooling at the neckline and sweeping over my waist and hips. The hemline reached the tops of my feet, where a good Plain dress should. However, it exposed much more than a Plain dress: my arms and collarbone were bare, and it dipped low in the back. But it looked like the night sky, and that was something I was familiar with.
I took a pass through the undergarments section of the department store and picked out some that I thought would work with the dress. I tucked the Himmelsbrief into my bra. Experience had taught me never to be without it. Everything they had was much fancier and more complicated than what I was used to. The same for the shoes. I tried walking up and down an aisle in a pair of high heels, but stumbled and nearly turned my ankle. I didn't know how English women did this-it must have involved years of practice. I settled for a pair of silver flat sandals that tied at the ankle.
I had saved the cosmetics counter for last. I felt a pang of sadness, again remembering Ginger applying makeup to my face when she had been alive. My fingers slid over the golden tubes and mirrored compacts.
I gathered some items at random, then pulled a stool up to the counter and leaned in toward a mirror. I played with the pots of color, dumping one across the counter and dropping a lipstick on the floor with a sharp crack that shattered the tube. I applied the paints and peered at myself in the mirror.
I looked like a caricature of myself, as if a child had drawn me in crayon. I wiped most of it off, leaving behind only the stubborn waterproof mascara and sheer pink lipstick. Better. I still looked like myself, only slightly more glowy.
With more than a bit of nervousness, I walked past the fountain to climb the escalator stairs. Horace whickered at me. I think it was because I smelled like perfume and not sweat. I gripped my candle tightly and watched my feet, mindful not to trip.
A low whistle emanated from above.
I looked up. Alex stood at the top of the steps. He was leaning against the rail, dressed in a tuxedo. His hair was damp and combed back from his face. He looked . . . really amazing. And so unlike himself.
I blushed, looked down to pick up my skirt from the hip to climb the stairs. When I reached the top, he took my hand and kissed it.
"You look gorgeous," he said, against my knuckles.
I felt my face flush more deeply, and was glad that I'd not left on any of the cosmetic blush. Alex's fingers brushed the shoulder of my dress.
"I like this," he said. "Very Grecian. It suits you."
I looked up and found my voice. "You look nice too."
He offered me his elbow. I stared at it until he folded my fingers into the crook.
"Dinner awaits," he said, leading me to a grouping of patio furniture that he'd arranged around one of the fire bowls. Fenrir curled around the bottom pedestal of the bowl, drowsing. Heavy china plates were set on the wrought-iron surface, and I fingered the brocade cloth napkins.
"This is lovely," I said.
He pulled my chair out for me. The iron squeaked on the marble floor, and he winced. "Wait until you try the popcorn."
I grinned.
Dinner was the richest meal I'd ever eaten-and the most eccentric. Alex fed me chocolate-covered cranberries, hot chocolate, and camping entrees.
"They're MREs," he said, around a mouthful of something that purported to be beef stew. "The military makes them. But they're also supposed to be popular among campers and survivalists."
"It's delicious," I said, twisting the pepper mill to deliver six kinds of gourmet pepper onto my MRE. I meant it-hot food without fear of contamination was something to be treasured.
A pop sounded from the fire, and I jumped, nearly knocking over my hot cocoa. The pop was followed by a flurry of others, like hail on a metal roof.
"Popcorn's ready," Alex said. He turned toward the fire bowl to pick out our foil packages of gourmet popcorn. He dropped one in front of me with a pair of tongs and tore it open. I took a hot morsel and dropped it into my mouth.
"It's good." I grinned.
"It ought to be," he said, around a mouthful of his own. "It's supposed to include French cheese."
"I don't think I've ever had French cheese before."
"And we may never have it again." He raised his mug, which was a ridiculously dainty cup shaped to look like a cupped leaf. "Cheers."
"Cheers," I said.
"To beauty. Yours."
My cup stilled in my raised hand. I wasn't sure that I could toast that. It felt vain. But anything seemed possible tonight. My uncertainty must have showed.
"You really are lovely," he said. Sincerity shone in his eyes.
My fingers crept self-consciously to my unbound hair. I was unaccustomed to thinking of myself in that way. "Am I beautiful when I'm dressed as an Englisher?" I asked. I was only partially teasing. I wanted to know the truth of what he thought.
"Nope. You're beautiful when you're covered up to your neck in Plain clothes. You're beautiful when you're plucking a chicken. You're beautiful when you're caked with mud. You're beautiful when you're praying. When you're soaking wet. And when you're lying awake, fretting, thinking no one is watching."