But Al’s looking at the shop door, suddenly pale. “Fuck,” he whispers.
“What is it?” Tad says, turning toward the door.
“Her,” he says.
I turn to look. But even before I turn, I know whom I will see. Maybe it’s the way he said her with such contempt and fascination and fear. The woman in red. Dressed in drapey velvet like she belongs to another century, another world. Red parasol crooked in her wrist. Clutching a pair of—is it opera glasses? Yes, actual opera glasses, the long golden handle in her red-gloved fist. “Freak show,” Al whispers.
We watch her wandering the aisles like a bride. Touching each item she passes. Stroking it, really. Right beneath the signs that say DO NOT TOUCH! But Al’s not clearing his throat. Not reminding her about the signs. He’s just staring at her.
“She comes in here all the time,” he murmurs, his hand still under the lamp lady’s skirt, gripping now.
“Huh,” Tad says. “What’s with the glasses?”
“I don’t ask,” Al says.
“She must love antiques.”
Al shakes his head. “She loves something.”
I watch her zigzag more quickly through the aisles now, as if she’s hunting. Stroking a gilt frame here, then a glass animal there. Picking up a pewter goblet and clutching it to her chest, then putting it back hastily. Bringing a glass figurine up to her face and… sniffing? No, she couldn’t possibly be sniffing. I blink and she’s moved to the next aisle, holding up an urn now, a giant one patterned with vines. She’s turning it in her gloved hands as though marveling at its design. Holding it up to the light. Bringing it terribly close to her face and… yes, sniffing. Her nose is twitching now like a dog’s. I watch her take what looks like a hit from the urn. She shudders with ecstasy. Gasps a little. Now she’s bringing it to her lips, her long tongue protruding.
Al clears his throat loudly. She whips her head toward him, urn still in hand. Icy stare. Looks through her glasses, then lowers them slowly. She’s seen me. Just like that, a light goes on behind her eyes. She’s all teeth now. White and shining.
She puts the urn down and glides toward me. Throws her arms wide. Suddenly I’m crushed in her velvet embrace. I smell oceans and roses, and beneath those scents, something else… sulfury and mammalian that recalls my placenta serums. But fresher, riper. I’m aware of Tad and Al watching us, exchanging looks.
“Daughter of Noelle,” she whispers into my ear. “What a delightful surprise.” She looks over at Tad and Al. Is that a growl I hear from her lips? Impossible. She’s smiling.
“Tell me, tell me,” she says, taking my hands and drawing me away from them, leading me deep into an aisle full of glass animals. “What is Daughter doing here?”
“Taking care of some… business.”
“Ah,” she says, looking over my shoulder at Mother’s things by the cash register. “I see.” Lowered voice. Sympathy in her eyes now, suddenly glistening like she could weep for me. “Poor, dear Daughter. She is desperate, isn’t she? Désespérée. Mother left her in some… straits.”
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“Oh, I love coming here. J’adore. Especially being around… old… things.” She seemed to choke briefly on the word old. “Don’t you?”
She strokes the head of a dusty glass jaguar. “They have so very much to teach us.” She crouches down beside the jaguar so they’re cheek to cheek. Closes her eyes. A strange, unholy bliss passes over her face.
“Well, I didn’t mean to disturb your… shopping,” I say.
Her eyes fly open. “Nonsense. Daughter of Noelle is so much better than any stupid bit of glass.” Suddenly she’s very close to me again. I blink and she’s standing inches from my face. Looking deeply into my eyes as I’m looking into her eyes. Blue as the outside sky. Red eye shadow around each of them like the strangest, fiery clouds. I’m held by her gaze like a moth to the light.
“A little bird told me you came by La Maison last night,” she says.
I picture the little bird. Blond corkscrew curls that made her look like a doll someone forgot to put away. Looking at me with her sapphire eyes full of amused judgment. Her heart-shaped face so like the face I’d conjured long ago in my child’s mind.
“A little bird,” I repeat, staring into her eyes. “Yes.”
“She said you were perfect.”