“If virtue’s what you’re after, we’ll find it,” Belle said, overly vivacious. “Anything for you, Mr. Macqueen.”
“Maybe another day. Will Desirée be ready soon?”
“I’ll just go check.” Belle burst out of the room and bustled past Marian, giving an exaggerated shrug.
“Belle,” Marian whispered. “What am I supposed to do?”
Belle stopped halfway up the stairs, leaned over the banister to whisper back, “Say hello. Tell him you’re thinking of going on the game.”
Belle was only mocking, but Marian, nettled, thought, why not? Why shouldn’t she fund her flying off men’s lust? She thought again of Gilda, remembered the beast. A grandfather clock at the end of the hall marked the seconds with a sound like a tongue clicking in disapproval. Marian could have ducked into the front parlor, put her overalls back on, and left, but curiosity immobilized her. She heard an impatient rustle, shoes hitting the floor. A few footsteps, and the door was pulled open.
What did Barclay see?
A long thin creature caught in the spill of light. Pale blue eyes ringed black, a fragile neck, stockings bagging slightly where there wasn’t enough leg to fill them, black patent shoes like hooves below narrow ankles. A gleaming ivory cap of hair wrapped around a small head. Slender wrists, long fingers. He saw her startle. He saw fear and then a flare of something—something in her gaze like bared teeth. Defiance. He did not recognize her as a child. Why should he have expected to see a child here? He had been thinking of Desirée, had knots and heat inside him.
What did Marian see?
An elegant man in a black suit, cuffs white and starched, gold watch chain across a black waistcoat, black hair barbered precisely and glossy with oil. He had a broad Salish nose, full lips, firmly rounded cheeks pinpricked with freckles. His complexion was olive, his eyes dark blue. He was not quite handsome. His eyes were too low in his face, his jaw heavy like a fighting dog’s. She saw him see her, sensed how the sight of her arrested him.
“Who are you?” he said.
Belle was coming back down the stairs with Desirée, who had on a modest cream-colored dress over whatever arrangement of straps and frills were underneath. Marian slid away, along the wall, and Barclay followed. She had been foolish to think she could ever do what Belle and the others did. A silly child, all dressed up.
“Who are you?” he said again.
Helplessly, she looked at Belle, who appeared to be trying to squelch the giggles. She could not say she was herself, Marian Graves, not when she was done up like this, not when he was looking at her that way. There was no answer.
“She’s just a kid,” Desirée said, taking Barclay’s arm. “She’s not one of ours.”
He didn’t shake her off, but he didn’t respond to her touch, either. He was still looking at Marian. Belle was looking at her, too, biting her lip, eyes teary with mirth. Desirée looked furious. Their faces cornered her like hounds around a fox.
“Shall we?” Desirée said, her voice rising.
He yielded, followed. Marian pressed back against the wall, turned her face away as he passed, caught the smell of his hair oil and some other fragrance, slightly bitter. She was not used to perfumed men. His step slowed. She knew he was willing her to look up into his face, but she would not. “She’s just a kid,” Desirée said again. “Marian, you go home.”
“Marian,” he repeated.
Still she did not look up, not until Barclay and Desirée had finally climbed the stairs and a door had closed. Belle was doubled over with laughter. “You’re in trouble,” she said, gasping. “Oh, lord.” Marian darted into the front parlor, feverishly shed the robe and slip, the stockings and shoes. What trouble? She pulled her shirt and overalls back on, stepped into her boots but didn’t bother tying them, bolted past Belle into the kitchen to retrieve her coat and muffler and the empty baskets.
Mrs. Wu turned from the stove, took in Marian’s painted face first with surprise, then with dismay. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “No good.”
* * *
—
Marian was home before the snow started in earnest. She went upstairs to wash her face. The soap stung her eyes, but no matter how she scrubbed, she couldn’t get rid of the last traces of kohl.
Berit had made a chicken pie that Marian ate in silent agitation. For Jamie, there were boiled carrots and onions, as Berit was still trying to punish him into eating meat. Wallace was out somewhere. Jamie was telling her about going up Mount Jumbo that afternoon. “I didn’t see any elk. All I did was this.” He opened his sketchbook to a drawing of a squirrel scaling a tree trunk. The charcoal lines were spare but sure, and Marian felt the roughness of the bark, the splay of the tiny claws, the shimmy of the scrabbling body.