She told me to try again, stiffening her stance and closing her eyes. I swept a curl across her forehead.

  “That’s nothing to be ’fraid of, right?”

  I tapped the tip of her nose and she nodded. I let phantom hand rest on her shoulder.

  “Warm,” she said. “I’d never suspect a ghost hand to be warm.” She began to laugh, though I wasn’t tickling her. “Arsen’s gonna eat his words. He thinks you got no Glory specialty.”

  “Don’t tell him!” First widened her eyes at me. She’d kept secrets from Arsen before—tucking away money or presents without his say-so. I could tell by the size of First’s bugging eyes that she thought phantom hand was too big a secret to keep.

  “He’s making me debut as a healer tomorrow. We’ve been practising and practising. I was in the library all day today.” I bleated the words to earn her pity. I probably sounded like Second when she whined, except I had something of value to protect, while Second merely bellyached about freedom, whatever that means. Freedom to hang out at the Mayflower and act like a bitch, I suppose. Phantom hand was worth more than that. “He says that healers are ‘it’ in the city right now; eastern medicine and past lives recovery and energy healing and divine mystic therapy and all that stuff. That’s the word he’s spreading in the city about me. If we tell him now he’ll want to postpone my party. I’ll have to redo my entire debut theme. And besides—” I cupped my hands over my face, for effect.

  “Besides what, little one?” First squatted down close to me.

  “Phantom hand needs a lot of work still and … and maybe Arsen’s not the best teacher? He doesn’t train me like you do. So I can understand it.”

  “Well, I know he can be a bit hasty—”

  “Yes, he is hasty,” I said, cutting First off. “And he never listens to me. Not like you do. I’d rather just you and me train my magic, so it can be really good.” First nibbled her lower lip as she mulled it over.

  “Think of what we can do with it. We could be the most famous family on Sub Rosa. Suddenly we’ll have the power to move things, just little things, but that’s more magic than anyone else has got,” I said. “If you’ll help me learn to control it. Help me figure out the right way to use it. I know it can be put to better use than just pushing books around the library floor. What would you do with a phantom hand, First mommy?”

  First closed her eyes and imagined the possibilities. “Touch me again.” I lifted a whispered finger to her eyelid.

  “Okay,” she said, without laughing or flinching. “I can train you, in secret, just for a while.”

  XIV

  A Sub Rosa debut, in theory, is the same as anywhere else. Its purpose is to introduce a newly trained Glory to the regular live ones and let them know she is available for companionship. It is important for the debut to be well-timed. The debutante must be mature enough to carry the crowd’s attention. If she can’t captivate the room, someone else surely will. After all, every Glory, not just the debutante, vies for the most attention—to be the one remembered at the end of the night. But if the debut is thrown too late, her House won’t be able to cash in on the new Glory’s freshness. “So much pressure, this whole virgin/whore thing,” I complained to First.

  We spent the better part of the afternoon primping. First reserved the entire Spa Rosa beauty shop. She hung the closed sign in the window herself to make sure we weren’t disturbed. “Sleep,” First ordered Second and me as we sat with hot roller sets under hair dryers. “Take a beauty nap any chance you get. This day is gonna be long.”

  Eartha and Astrid laboured over me with their polishes and sprays. They glued blue butterflies into my hair and pasted minuscule rhinestones on my eyelashes. Covering me in shimmering powder became a group affair during which I was made to strip naked while everyone tossed the powder at me like wedding rice. Second sprinkled some onto her hands and clapped, making a glittery cloud between her palms. When the dust settled I looked like I had a celestial sunburn. Even my armpits were sparkly.

  After the longest six hours of my life, we were ready—too early. We hung around the Spa lobby killing time. “Stay clear of that window,” said First. “Nobody suppose to see you yet.” We awkwardly arranged ourselves on the waiting chairs so that our turquoise dresses wouldn’t wrinkle in the back.

  “You know what Arsen’s going to present her as?” Second asked. First and I gave each other calculating looks. We had a big plan for phantom hand. I prayed she wouldn’t give me away.

  “A healer,” said First.

  “He’s presenting Little as a healer! This I gotta see.”

  “I’m a healer,” I snapped. “I could be if I wanted to.”

  “You can be a damn elephant, I don’t give a fuck. It’s Arsen I’m talking about,” said Second. “Him and his jacked-up titles that don’t say shit. If he heard it on one of those talk shows with women crying in the audience then he thinks it’s cool.”

  “Be careful with that mouth of yours, Second, honey,” warned First.

  “Well, what’d he present you as, Candy?”

  “Conquest.”

  “A conquest, like you’re Mount Everest, or what?” Second made like she was scaling a rock face, yodeling as she climbed. First broke a smile before telling her to shut up. “I had it way worse,” Second went on. “He called me an ‘everywoman,’ whatever that means.”

  “You forget Arsen growed up in a church family. Everyman, or woman, is a Christian story. It’s after Everyman, the medieval morality play,” said First. Second and I only blinked at her. “Mankind and God have a good chit-chat,” First sighed. “There’s a copy in our library.”

  “Is that why my live ones always cry out ‘oh my god’?” Second snorted at her joke. First covered her laugh with her hand. I saw the toothy corners of her mouth peek out—what was left of the girl in her peeked out too. “You should get presented as something more unique, more you, is all I’m saying,” Second said to me when the laughter subsided. “Arsen is so stingy. Healers are so played out.” First and I stared blankly; First’s girlish smile dropped. Had Second given me a compliment? Second herself appeared to have tripped on her own words. Getting off her chair in a hurry, she started to glide around the red carpet. “We shouldn’t have to leg it in these get-ups,” she complained, changing the subject. “We should float there, like angels.”

  But First had us walk slowly and carefully, lifting our dresses a foot off the ground so that they wouldn’t pick up what little dust or grime there was on the street. Not very glamorous, I thought, tiptoeing across the cobblestones. Mr Saragosa turned his key crank extra quickly as we passed the Pawnshop. The white steel doors unfurled with a noisy clatter. “Busy afternoon,” he said. “You’ll be getting some lovely gifts tonight, my dear.” I wasn’t expecting presents, but after Mr Saragosa mentioned them, I hoped someone got me diamond earrings. There was no Sub Rosa proverb that said I couldn’t have diamond earrings.

  There were cars parked up and down the street; I counted BMW and Mercedes hood ornaments along the way. Arsen’s freshly washed and waxed Alfa Romeo sat right in front of the Mayflower’s front door, parked directly under the ship’s figurehead that resembled First. In sharp contrast to us, Arsen had decided on effortless panache. His butter-cream coloured linen suit was unbuttoned. An ostrich leather belt hung at his hips. He didn’t baby step in his wingtip shoes the way we did in our heels.

  “You ready?” he asked me. “You practised your lines?” I was ready, more ready than he could possibly have imagined. Second’s comment, about being presented as original, rang in my mind, and phantom hand twitched with eagerness.

  The Mayflower Ballroom was panelled in dark wood like the restaurant, but no ships in bottles and no booths. There was a small proscenium stage with velvet curtains where I’d be making my speech. The microphone drooped in its stand.

  Shirley and Al had decorated the room in blues and greens. The ceiling was hung with floral garlands. First, who could reach them, touched a strand. “Dyed carnations. How beautiful!”

  “We spent the day stringing them,” Likka said. I turned to see red plunge neckline, red plunge neckline, red plunge neckline. The triplets had traded their pink marabou hairpins in for va-va-vixen dresses. It was the only time I’d seen them out of their booth, without the milkshakes and glitter-glue sticks. They were going to give House of Arsen a run for our money, I thought, hugging them with our customary squeal.

  “Eddie Junior is here,” Likka started in with the gossip. “I wonder if your Second will make out with him?” We responded to her question with a round of ewws, our grownup dresses doing nothing to mature our conversation.

  Shirley had hired Eddie Junior and Senior as servers for the party. I don’t know whose idea it was to make them turquoise cummerbunds and bow ties, but I watched them as they happily delivered trays of unidentifiable hors d’oeuvres shaped like tubes or puffs to incoming guests.

  A man plucked Portia from our huddle and lifted her onto his right shoulder. She perched there as they wove through the room, lighting paper lanterns shaped like butterflies. I knew it had to be the elusive Klime, Daddy of House of Klime, by the way he cradled Portia’s feet in his hands. Portia didn’t mask her bliss; her face beamed amid the hanging flowers as her legs dangled from her Daddy’s shoulder.

  All of the Glories seemed happier to have their Daddies nearby. Ling intentionally brushed by Klime as she danced with a live one. She was a toy ballerina on a mechanical track, gliding and gliding across the dance floor. Men watched her like they were kids pressed up against the window of a toyshop at Christmas time. They unconsciously shuffled as they waited to be next on her dance card.

  Fauxnique wore a tiara of blinking lights. She was feeding a live one a forkful of cake, smearing icing on his chin. Her Daddy, Emanuel, could have been Second Man’s older brother: same side part and sculpted brows, but with a thin film of exhaustion. Worn down from living in the city, I guessed. He danced with Dearest balanced on top of his feet like a father dancing with his child.

  Second and Ling’s Second, two squared, as the triplets called them, sat in a corner together, drinking wine. Alcohol. Eddie Junior and Senior had traded their appetizer trays for bottles of red wine. They flitted behind the guests, pouring wine into glasses, unnoticed. Eddie Senior was particularly vigilant. I could almost hear him thinking, top up, top up, this fellow needs to slow down already, top up, latent sloppy lush, splash, top up. I felt sorry for him. Interpreting the nuances of drinkers from behind the scenes was a bummer job.

  I suppose I hadn’t gone all that long without a drink, myself. Booze seemed like it was from another universe, foreign and light-years away. First caught me, eyes trained on the wine bottles as they worked the room. “It’s for the guests,” she said.

  It appeared that Second considered herself a guest. She clinked glasses with Ling’s Second, their glasses probably kept full by Eddie Junior. Arsen headed for her, and seeing him come, Second tilted her glass back to finish her wine in a hurry.

  “Leave her.” First grabbed the cuff of his jacket. “Let her be with her friend. Let her have a little wine. It’s a special night. Besides, you always tell us that if a live one offers a drink, we should at least taste it in appreciation.” Second raised her glass in our direction. I returned the gesture out of habit, offering her an awkward salute with my empty hand.

  Arsen busied himself shaking hands with live ones. There were at least fifty of them. As they arrived, I watched for incoming presents. The gift table by the door was growing crowded with tiny boxes. A couple of live ones passed Arsen envelopes, which he casually tucked in his jacket pocket. Once in a while, he’d bring someone over to meet me. “Little, this is Ted, this is Frank”—their names were so boring they must have been made up. I could barely keep track of their small talk, my focus darting around the room.

  I bugged First to start the speeches. I knew I wouldn’t be able to relax until they were over.

  “Look around you,” grumbled First. “Somebody’s still missing.” As soon as she said it, I noticed the Diamond Dowager’s absence. If it was anyone else, we might have started without them. Diamond knew we would wait.

  The wine began to take the room. There weren’t enough Glories to go around. Ling had a whole crowd surrounding her. I heard her making jokes and the waves of well-timed laughter from the men. Second Man’s dancing got a little bit wilder, taking up any empty floor space. A live one pawed his waist as if searching for a bit of body fat to squeeze. Men asked me to dance and somehow I held my own. They were too tipsy to notice my amateur steps. I made a note to myself to have Arsen teach me partners’ dancing; there was still something useful I could learn from him.

  “You’re not bad at that cha-cha business,” one told me as I was filling my punch glass. He was tucked behind the dessert table, holding a puff pastry with only a single bite taken. Cream filling oozed out, waiting for the man to take a second mouthful.

  “You’re being kind. I can barely keep time.”

  “You looked great, at least from this distance.” He cleared his throat and I recognized his particular raspy breath as the Widower’s.

  What are you doing here? I almost said. I pressed my mouth shut, not knowing if I should speak to him at all. Every word, every sound I’d ever said to him had been well planned and timed. I wasn’t about to spoil my mystique with an over-animated Oh my god! I’m super happy you came to my party.

  The Widower laughed out of politeness. “I’m not one for parties. In fact, I was about to leave, but not before saying good night to you.”

  “Good night,” I whispered. I gave him the sweetest embrace I could without overdoing it— no pelvic tilts, no rubbing the nape of his neck. He hugged me back in the same reserved manner.

  This was the scene the Dowager walked in on: the Widower and me. A burst of wind rattled the garland along the ceiling. A couple candles blew out. The Diamond Dowager stood at the door with her orphan children behind her. The room grew silent. “Finally,” I heard someone in the crowd say. I knew it was First, although she had disguised her voice. The Diamond Dowager glared at me, arm in arm with the Widower. He hadn’t visited one of her orphans since he’d met me.

  “Little, you look lovely.” She glided over to me and kissed my cheek. Her lips were icy cold, and I swear she gnashed her teeth in my ear as she pulled away. She and her girls wore their usual black apparel to my party, but the orphans each had a spray of coloured ostrich feathers in their hair and matching ribbon chokers. They walked in their usually uniform line, except for one, on the end, who swayed slightly to the music. She should have been here a few minutes before when things had really been bumping, before the Dowager sobered everyone up. I saw this orphan’s unfettered smile and, what was even better, the smear of lipstick on her teeth. Don’t these girls know anything about Glorying? I laughed to myself. I said one last thank you to the Widower and ran after the orphan.

  “I’m Little,” I said.

  “Yes. I read the invitation.” Confused, she didn’t say her name, just peered over my shoulder at the other orphans moving forward without her.

  “What’s your name?” Her face twisted as if I was speaking a foreign language.

  “Isabella,” she said finally.

  “Sweet Isabella, between us girls, you have some lipstick on your teeth.” Isabella froze as I slid my finger between her lips, the same way First always did with me, and wiped the smear of red away.

  “Normally, we don’t wear this bright lipstick,” she explained.

  “It looks very pretty. That gentleman right there even noticed,” I pointed at the Widower as he exited out the door.

  “The Widower? Noticed me?”

  “That’s right,” I said, hoping she would tell the others. I wanted to put an end to this idea that I was purposefully trying to steal the orphans’ regular. Isabella, at least, was happy. She skittered away with just a bit of bounce in her step.

  I searched for First and Arsen to ask them, “Now?” Finally, they took me behind the black velvet curtain. Arsen hardly said a word of encouragement to me before he strutted across the stage. He clinked a spoon on a wine glass in front of the microphone to get the crowd’s attention. “Good evening, friends,” he sweetly repeated a few times. His overdone confidence told me he was nervous too. But the crowd only saw his strikingly upright posture as he sang a cappella loud enough to fill two ballrooms.

  “He’s singing Sub Rosa’s official anthem,” First told me. It was a French song, and so I didn’t understand the words. I didn’t need to understand to be completely taken. Arsen’s voice sounded as if it tore free from his heart, gained momentum as it travelled up his throat, and leaped from his mouth, triumphant. First and I parted the curtains enough to see everyone falling into a trance, listening. Even the twirling breeze around the Diamond Dowager settled, and she took a seat, letting her layers of petticoats fan out around her. I was captivated as well, though not captivated enough not to worry if Arsen was too tough an act to follow. I had work to do on that stage.

  “Make us proud,” First whispered to me. And maybe it was the French song or the half glass of wine she had drank, but she kissed me. She kissed me square on the lips, not for long, but long enough to show me exactly how soft her mouth was. It was neither motherly nor seductive. It was a kiss that, for a moment, balanced us. Made us equals. Partnered us in whatever was about to come. Then she turned me around and nudged me through the curtain. Arsen’s song had ended and people were whistling enthusiastically. Their cheers grew louder as I came waving onstage, shyly at first, then, letting the applause sink in, I raised my hand high in the air for the crowd. First gave me a minute to soak it up before she stepped out after me.

  Arsen told my story. It sounded not unlike the legend of Sub Rosa— prescriptive and fairytale-ish. I was a girl in terrible danger, a drifter, homeless. Drugs and drink and the worst type of city men infecting my purest heart. I was unrecognizable: underfed, sickly, and unloved. The audience made sounds of empathy, tsks and ahs. And through it all, I was a virgin. A Glory waiting to happen. I went from rags to pizzazz. From ill to thrill. “Not only did she save herself here on Sub Rosa, she can cure your ailments, too,” Arsen declared in his best preacher voice. “That is her gift.” He seemed satisfied with the audience’s reaction and began to steer First and me away while people stood for an ovation. He subtly shook his head at me, signalling me not to make a speech. He thought I’d fumble my lines, that ass.