The Glamourist (The Vine Witch #2)(63)
“I’m late,” she said, explaining she was expected for dinner at Maurice’s sharply at seven thirty. “Right when we’re making progress. I’m sorry, but I must leave.”
Elena slipped her burgundy travel jacket back on. Both men gave her outfit a withering stare as she buttoned it up. “What is it? Did I miss a button?”
The men glanced at each other.
“It’s your attire, my dear.” Alexandre adjusted his pince-nez.
“What’s wrong with it?” Elena scanned the skirt for dust or a snag in the hem.
Henri chewed his lip, avoiding eye contact. “It’s just that Maurice’s is . . .”
“What?”
“Exclusive,” Alexandre said. “It is the territory of the bon chic, the affluent. One does not wear a wool travel suit to dine on white linen tablecloths and drink from crystal glassware.”
Elena exhaled, though it felt more like the air had been knocked out of her. “I haven’t time to change. Is my attire really that bad?”
“Maurice’s is more than a restaurant,” Henri said. “It’s like going to a show, only everyone is both audience and actor. Me and my, er, associates could sum up a household’s wealth based on the cut of a dress alone. Yvie always went for the madames in beaded gowns and feathered hats.”
“So, one should dress to appease the taste of the pickpockets. I see.”
Elena had a dress she’d planned to wear. Nothing extravagant, but passable for the fiancée of a former lawyer. Or so she’d thought. But there was no time to retrieve even a mediocre dress now.
“If it’s not too presumptuous,” Alexandre said, returning to the wardrobe where he’d found the map earlier, “I may be able to accommodate a more acceptable look for the evening.”
Exhausted and in no mood for another struggle, Elena relented. After sorting through a few items hanging on the rack, Alexandre presented her with an evening gown any woman would be proud to stroll the boulevard in. It was made of an unusual seafoam-colored silk with an overlay of silver metallic tulle on the shoulders. The plunging neckline had been embellished with tiny sea pearls and silver sequins in a fetching scalloped pattern that sparkled even under the shop’s greasy lamplight. And on the skirt, embroidered blades of grass rose up from the hem to regale sequined butterflies and neon-green dragonflies sewn just below the bodice.
“This is absolutely beautiful. Wherever did you get it?”
“In trade. For a favor. It’s not worth knowing the details, but the gown ought to be suitable for the evening. You may change in the back room if you like,” he said, gesturing to the curtain behind the front desk. “As I recall there are matching shoes and a hat somewhere. I’ll rummage around for them while you change.”
While the sensible half of her instincts told her there was something not quite right about his explanation—or even the prospect of enjoying herself at a fashionable dinner while Yvette was still out there somewhere being held against her will—her daring half longed to greet Jean-Paul while wearing such an elegant gown. And it did fit. Perfectly, without need of a corset, which was a comfortable bonus.
The hat and shoes were waiting for her inside the curtain as she emerged from behind the large filing cabinet she’d changed behind for privacy. The hat was like some divine dessert from a pastry shop, with its broad pleated silk brim to match the dress, graceful tail of metallic tulle trailing off the back, and jeweled hatpin secured to the band. The pin reminded her instantly of Yvette and her penchant for using her accessories as weapons of self-defense. She poked the hatpin through the crown of the silk cream puff, securing it in place, then slipped on the satin shoes. The effect of the ensemble was evident in the men’s dumbfounded reaction as she stepped out from behind the curtain.
“Fashionable enough to have my pocketbook stolen on the boulevard?” she asked Henri.
“Oh, yes, mademoiselle.” He smiled and stood. “In fact, I’d better escort you there just in case.”
Elena was perfectly capable of getting herself to the restaurant safely, but the young man looked like he could use the break. She glanced once more at the map and the progress they’d made on the translation of the fairy language, but before she could say anything about the work yet to do, Alexandre assured her he would stay and continue the effort as long as he could. With that assurance, she left the old man in the curio shop and headed to Maurice’s in her borrowed dress with a lovesick thief for an escort.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Being abandoned in total darkness was as scary as Yvette had always assumed it would be. At least at first. But for someone whose magic had recently been unleashed by elementals, drained by thugs, and then restored once again by a band of goblins, there was an inkling of hope. Once the eyes adjusted, gradient shades of light could be found even in the abandoned tunnels of the Maze of the Dead, though, admittedly, the light seemed to be emanating from somewhere beneath her skin. The more her fear diminished the brighter the glow, until she was nearly as radiant as a firefly.
“But what now, Monsieur Whiskers?” She poked her head through the hole in the tunnel wall. And though she could see a short distance in either direction, she did not know which way was out and which way led deeper into the catacombs. She was still just as trapped as when she was left alone in the dark.