“Before you, Second Man had the title for Dark Days,” First explained flatly.

  “Five days.” He held up hand so I might count his five digits; his fingers were bent slightly like a cat’s claw. “Just tell me how you did it,” he said, dropping all airs. “Some say you found a second Advent Alley in the Dark. You danced the line, didn’t you? You lured live ones in somehow?”

  “Leave it to you to think up sucha scheme. Nothin’ says you can’t go back in there, with your bright ideas, and set a new record, hmm? Make for the Dark now and we’ll see you, with five bills, in time for supper.”

  “Maybe I’ll do that,” Second Man shouted as First led me briskly away, cursing under her breath.

  “Don’t worry none, Little. He won’t go for the Dark title. Dark Days is bad enough for us fresh from the city. But once ya been a Glory, the very thought of goin’ back to the Dark is enough to make you crazy. Imagine Second Man prancin’ around in the Dark? The fool.”

  “How much money did Arsen make off of my Dark Days title?” First frowned at this question. Frowned and tapped her index finger on her chin without answering. “Arsen’s winning is paying for all this, right?” It was the one question I really wanted answered. I rattled my shopping bags to prompt First to tell me.

  “Sure. Sure he’s payin’,” she said, “for some. But I got money tucked away, and I don’t mind spendin’ it on you. It’s better this way. That gamblin’ money is not fit for a hero like you. We’re spendin’ Sub Rosa money on Sub Rosa gifts. The best of the best.” First certainly was spending money, lots of money, on me. “I got more surprises for you,” she said, and I decided to shut up and enjoy it.

  Our next stop was the Spa Rosa, a remodelled dirty-picture theatre with an ostentatious marquee, each light bulb a tiny blinking red rose. The signboard out front read, this week’s special, paraffin wax pedicures, astrology readings.

  Through the chrome-handled double doors there was still a recognizable theatre lobby. The concession stand had been turned into a cosmetics counter, the ticket booth housed a stand-up tanning bed. But the red paisley carpet was original, or so First told me. Everything past the lobby was less like a theatre and more like a futuristic factory. Along the left wall was a row of manicure tables; large metal arms with lamps and magnifying glasses, drills and files and other attachments shot up from the corner of each table. More metal arms grew along a second row of dentist chairs. Even the sinks and hair styling stations were crowded with surgical-looking instruments that I’d never seen before.

  The same instruments danced across a huge screen—all that was left of the dirty-picture show. But instead of pornography, a softly lit infomercial demonstrated beauty and cosmetic procedures. I watched a woman onscreen having her eyebrows surgically arched higher. I hadn’t even tweezed my own eyebrows before. Is this what all women do? I wondered. Or was this house of sci-fi beauty particular to Sub Rosa?

  “You’ll love this place,” said First, as she eased herself into one of the dentist chairs. “Their manicures last for months. And their facials … fountain of youth, I tell you.”

  “Hello, Candy.” A woman with an apron and what sounded like a put-on Slavic accent approached. “You’ve come for pedicure?”

  “Yes, Astrid. And she has a full-set appointment with Eartha.”

  Eartha, who could have been Astrid’s twin sister with her identical child-bearing hips and strong shoulders, brought me over to a manicure desk. She flinched as she took my hand. “She’s had the mark! I can still see it in her fingers.”

  “There is nothing to see,” First told her firmly. “Her fingers are perfect. I cleaned them myself.” I agreed with First, I couldn’t see a trace of black left on my fingers. I had just about forgot about the black marks completely.

  Eartha switched on an electric file and dragged it slowly over my nails until they were hot with friction. Her touch was forceful despite my wincing and I found myself appreciating First for her gentle fleshy hands. Heavy blonde bangs covered Eartha’s eyes as she inspected her work under the magnifying glass.

  “Give her something cute, like round tips with a coral polish,” First instructed her. Unlike me, she was perfectly comfortable; her feet propped in metal stirrups as she leaned back in the chair looking at a picture book on tropical birds. Astrid raked First’s foot with what looked like a cheese grater. Flakes of calloused skin flew through the air.

  “No,” said Eartha. “Coral will not look good with her ring.”

  “You seen her ring!” First wriggled to an upright position, Astrid latched onto her left foot.

  “Don’t ask me to tell you. You’ll ruin the surprise for the little girl here.” Eartha blew up at her hair and her bangs parted just enough for me to see her wink. “Astrid, can you picture what I picture?”

  “Silver polish,” said Astrid, her eyes in a trance-like roll toward the ceiling.

  “That’s a mistake,” snapped First, kicking a bit in her stirrups. The cheese grating paused and resumed again. “Little gonna get better than a silver ring. You’ll see.”

  “Did I say silver? Are you paying for nails or for fortune today?” Eartha snapped back. She picked up a pair of miniature scissors and began to trim my cuticles. Blood peeked out of the base of my thumbnail. She had trimmed too deep. “Christ,” she said, pressing a tissue to the cut. “I thought you had thicker skin.”

  When she was finished my nails were as long and metallic as the instruments used to make them. “You think they’re pretty?” First asked. This was another personality trait of hers I had already cracked: when she asked if I liked something, it meant that she didn’t. I hid my newly manicured hands behind my back. “Oh! Oh! Doncha worry. You could have tree bark for fingernails and still be pretty,” she said and hugged me, like I knew she would.

  I thought I had her good. Had her spending money, time, and affection on me. Any small wound I made up, I could count on her to kiss it better. I would never be hurting or alone with First around. She might hesitate for a second or two, think it was odd that I’d have anything ailing me on Sub Rosa, but she seemed to like rushing in with her embellished comforts. If I crumpled my brow, she’d stop talking and massage my forehead. If I smacked my lips, she’d retrieve a cinnamon candy from her purse.

  I complained that my feet hurt and she offered to carry me home.

  VIII

  “Arsen calls it the Wifey Wing.” It might have been a wing of some mansion—not like I’d been to any mansions (the first one I’d seen up close was the tragic monstrosity across the street from us), but I knew that they were big and overwhelming and had lots of stuff you’re not supposed to touch. So did the Wifey Wing.

  Like Arsen, First was fond of her photographs. Framed pictures covered the gold chrysanthemum-pattern wallpaper from the ceiling to the baseboards. Some were pictures of saints, others were of old men posing with alligators or men on mountain expeditions or in diving suits about to jump into the water. There were bugs and butterflies in floating frames and fossils hanging in glass boxes. Out of the dozens of photos, only one showed First’s family. The photo of her and her mama hung in a gilded frame, the nicest frame—yet it was tucked close to the baseboard at the far end of the sofa. The photo was overexposed. Still, there was First’s undeniably toothy smile and bulky curls. The biggest teeth and hair a toddler could have without falling over top-heavy. As for her Mama, or what I guessed to be her Mama, she was only legs— legs and a pair of hands reaching down to balance her daughter. After a minute of letting me look at the photo, First started showing off her bric-a-brac. “See my collection of seashells,” she said, and, “Aren’t the people who make this blown glass skilled?” Each object was from some exotic place: indigo-dyed pillows from the Ivory Coast; a jagged chunk of amethyst from Brazil; even the feather duster she used to clean with was made from Arabian ostrich feathers. She stressed which were gifts and which she had purchased herself. “I always buy my collectables from the Sub Rosa Pawnshop.” She reminded me of rule number two, but then lowered her voice to tell me: “If they don’t have what I want, I ask the live ones to bring it to me. Then I sleep with it under my pillow to get the city off.” She polished the round back of a brass swan paperweight as she spoke. I noticed it had a hundred-dollar bill tucked under its wing. I spotted more money lining the bottom of a crystal candy dish, buried in saltwater taffy.

  Next, she slid open a door to a hallway. I had been under the impression that the sitting room was the whole apartment. The “workin’” room was double the size of the sitting room, or maybe it just seemed that way because the walls and ceiling were mirrored, and because our heels echoed on the tiled floor as she toured me around the round novelty beds and kidney-bean-shaped chaise longues. Nowhere did I spot a dust bunny or fingerprint or scuff mark. Everything was white. Not white like a sheet of paper is white, more like the look (or feel) of crisp winter air when the morning sun is shining directly in your eyes. When I stood in the corner, my reflection reproduced itself uncountable times in the mirrored surfaces.

  There was also a library, a ladies’ bathroom, and a live ones’ bathroom, “’cause we can’t be sharin’ our private business with the live ones.” The dressing room brought us to the end of First’s tour. Arsen was nowhere in sight. He’d left without so much as a goodbye note. I predicted right, that my stay at his place wouldn’t last a week. I’d had longer stints in abandoned houses.

  I would last in the Wifey Wing, I vowed, where the vanity table and dressers were strewn with perfume decanters and jewellery boxes. “This …” First squealed, as she presented a black lacquer armoire on the far side of the room, “… is my gift to you.” I felt like I was being shown the entrance to heaven. The thing was massive. Enamel-painted birds and flowers crowded every inch of its shiny surface. I could see my reflection in the spaces between the gold and green brush strokes; the black lacquer finish was glassy smooth. First lifted the brass latch in the centre, and the double doors swung open with a swish.

  Inside, I spotted my old duffle bag cowering in the corner. First pushed it further back in the armoire and began to hang up my new dresses. The clothing bar was so high, I knew I would need a stool to get them down again. Or maybe First would always retrieve and put my clothes away for me; she didn’t seem to mind. She finished arranging my new clothes with a satisfied clap of her hands, then reached into her bra and found a set of keys.

  “The keys to Wifey Wing.”

  “Really?” I hesitated to take them.

  “Yes, really, this is your home now. We share everything.”

  “Not me.” Second’s voice came out of nowhere. “Stay away from my bed. Stay away from my hairbrush. And stay away from my clothes.” First went to the window, which wasn’t a window at all, but a partition of lace.

  “Our bedroom,” she said, drawing the curtains back. The room was in a cloud of lacy layers. Two beds hid in the chantilly and the tatting: one king with crisp white sheets, the other a twin covered in plush toys. This was when I noticed Second, her slender arm jutting out from beneath the fuzzy animal heap. It was late for her to be in bed, and I wondered if she and Arsen had had sex while First and I were out shopping. Who cared about a worthless hairbrush? I didn’t want to share him, especially not with Second.

  “She don’t want your skanky clothes,” First said to her. “She’s got clothes of her own. Come to think of it, that pleather dress you had on hold, I think the seamstress must have taken that in—sewn it up real small—and sold it to Little.”

  Second shook the stuffed animals off her in every direction and came storming toward us. “You bought that, turn out? That was my fucking dress.”

  “How was I supposed to know?” I tried to explain. Neither of them listened.

  “Don’t worry,” said First. “She couldn’t possibly look more like a hooker than you.”

  “Fuck you, Candy. Fuck you and your bullshit gowns and bullshit opera gloves. You said you was dressing her like your dolly. That you were so pleased to have a baby to play dress-up with.”

  “Little can wear whatever she wants.”

  “Oh, Little can do whatever she wants, is that right?” Second lunged toward me, swung a false fist. I flinched as it sailed beside my head. “What’s your name, darling?” she asked. I felt my heart beat in my throat. “You stupid or something? Don’t know your name? First name or last?”

  “Quit your racket, Second.” First positioned herself between us, her hands firmly at her hips. “She got things to do and besides, she’s not interested in your hysteria. You should know better than to act crazy over a dress.”

  “I’m not the one who’s crazy.” Second didn’t quit. “Have the fucking dress. You should wear it, Candy. Wear your whites like a clueless turn-out. You and your darling doll. I don’t want nothing from you. Nothing.” Second shouted the last word in First’s face, and I expected fists to fly.

  “You may not want it,” First said sweetly. “But you’ll keep gettin’ it. I will keep givin’ to you because, remember, I love you.” Hearing this made my heart pound harder: Second got an “I love you” for being an asshole. For some reason it made Second madder too. She bolted around First to the dresser, grabbed one of my new dresses, and threw it at First’s face. The thin fabric didn’t travel well through air and missed First by a foot, falling dejectedly into her effortless catch like a poorly folded paper plane. When I saw Second’s impotent throw, I figured I could take her.

  “Stay away from my things!” I screamed. She paused, shocked that I had a voice, then took a hard step toward me, fist up. This time I was ready to do more than flinch. I wound up and kicked her in the shin. I wished I had my new boots on. She fell, taking me with her, and the two of us rolled on the floor, grabbing the meagre flesh on each other’s bodies. I got a few good punches in; Second’s nose crunched under my fist. But, like everyone else, she was bigger than me, and once she had me pinned I was stuck. Each time she let go of my wrists to take a smack at me, I’d grab for her hair, jerking her head until it cracked against the carpet. We repeated this a few times, getting more and more tired until all we could do is stare each other down. First didn’t come to my rescue; she busied herself picking up the stuffed animals Second had scattered around the bedroom. Periodically, she yelled for us to stop. We spent a while longer in a body lock before rolling apart, both of us panting where we lay.

  “You two are supposed to be sisters,” said First. “Get up now, Second. You’ve caused enough grief today.” With one arm, First yanked Second to her feet. “Little can’t be wound up her first night.” Second gave me a final kick before heading out the door.

  “You broke rule number three,” First said after Second left. I was seeing spots, confused. “You ain’t hurt,” she said, yanking me up like she did Second, except I practically sailed through the air and landed on the big bed. Her strength winded me, but she was right, I wasn’t hurt. Not a scratch or bruise on me. I wondered what Second’s damages were.

  “What’s rule number three?” I asked as soon as my head cleared.

  First smacked herself on her cheek. “I forgot to tell you! Rule number three is the most important of all. Without it Sub Rosa would be just another city stroll, and us Glories, lord forbid, would be common hos.” First straightened the stuffed animals on the twin bed, lining them up so they faced her as she sat down to tell me. “We don’t allow nasty city behaviour,” she said firmly. As a Glory I was forbidden to fight other Glories or Daddies or live ones. Punching, hair-pulling, scratching, kicking, elbow-jabbing, biting, strangling, clubbing, cutting, poisoning, raping, killing—these did not exist on Sub Rosa. Furthermore, I could never steal wallets or watches or anything while working; stealing from Sub Rosa businesses was unthinkable. Glories were not runaways. They didn’t abandon their new families and homes. Rule number three would be the easiest one to keep. Why anyone would want to be thieving or violent in a place as wonderful as Sub Rosa was beyond First.

  “Second breaks this rule from time to time. But don’t you mind her,” she warned. “You can’t learn a thing from a girl like her. Can’t teach her, neither. Arsen had me to train her like a new vine, slow and deliberate. Showed her how to recite a pickup like a poem. How to unbow her legs and walk like an angel. How to put some pedigree into her routine. Yes, she lands the dates, but a live one never sees her twice. You know why?”

  “Because she’s an asshole?”

  “Because she insists on being hateful and dumb. Just like she was when Arsen brought her from the skids. She hates me, after everythin’ I done. She hates the men. She even hates herself.” First picked a plush ladybug out of the line and started to knead its soft body with both hands. “What troubles me is you two are alike in some ways. Seeing you scrap so worries me. I suppose you got reasons to be hot-tempered, we all do, but them reasons are done with now. The city is one place, and we are in another. You can’t go around acting like that no more, especially with the live ones. You don’t hate men, do you?” I shook my head no without really considering it.

  “That’s a relief. Sometimes the way you cross your arms so tight in front of you I wonder. Don’t be fooled by men; they may be bangin’ their fists on countertops, buyin’ the next round, molestin’ under-aged girls, or buyin’ magazines about molestin’ under-aged girls. I haven’t been here so long I totally forgot what the city does to men. No doubt a man thinkin’ one thing when he look at you. Probably got the episode in his mind, the one where he lays into your girlish places. You’re not dumb; you know what goes on in his head, so now you’re imaginin’ it too; him takin’ you out, hard. It stirs you up, right? The man, well, he’s not dumb neither. He can feel you gettin’ disturbed, and does it turn him off? No, it don’t.