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“What do you make of all this?” Elodie asks. Surrendering to the stand-off between us, she motions around the space, taking obvious pride in being the first to share it with me.
“I think it’s a maximalist’s dream.” I peer at a shield that looks like it came from the time of Viking rule, then over to a marble bust of a head that looks a lot like Julius Caesar.
“It’s not a hologram, if that’s what you’re thinking. Everything you see was brought back by Trippers.”
“Seriously?” I take another, more appreciative, look at the madcap collection of strange artifacts and extravagant mishmash of relics.
“You know how Arthur lets you keep a trophy when you return?”
I nod, remembering the diamond swan hair clip that Mason should have by now. And of course, the gold ring I took from the duke.
“After a while, they just sort of started taking up space, so Arthur agreed to let us turn this club into an archive of our own. Then, of course, everyone started getting competitive about the types of things they brought back. And, well, what you see here is the result.”
My gaze lands on a human skeleton displayed in a coffin made of glass. Its skull inexplicably encrusted in jewels; the body adorned in a black velvet robe with elaborate gold and silver embroidery trailing down the front. The piece strikes me as simultaneously beautiful and unnerving.
“And Arthur doesn’t mind?” My attention lingers on the strange, haunting thing—the jaw embedded with diamonds and rubies, the skull paved with bits of gold and pearls.
“As long as we return with his list of Gets, he’s fine with it. And as for that—” She motions toward the coffin. “That’s one of Braxton’s contributions.”
I turn toward Elodie, sure that she’s bluffing. Unfortunately, my barefaced show of surprise looks like it only delights her more.
“I thought for sure he would’ve mentioned it,” she says, not even trying to hide the glee behind her reveal—of knowing something about Braxton that he hasn’t gotten around to sharing with me. “He’s ridiculously proud of his find.”
I glance between Elodie and the jewel encrusted skeleton. On the one hand, it’s eerie, creepy, and morbid as hell. On the other, knowing Braxton’s taste in art, it makes sense.
“It’s an old Roman catacomb saint,” she explains. “They became controversial, which is why there are so few of them left these days. Of course, Braxton brought this one back from the sixteenth century.”
I try to picture him rushing for the portal with this thing strapped to his back. It’s impossible to imagine, but who am I to dispute it?
“Now that you’re a Blue, you can finally hang here on the weekends. It can get pretty wild, and you wouldn’t believe the bands and special guests Arthur brings in.” She hooks her thumb toward a stage at the far end of the room. It reminds me of the one I saw in Arcana.
“You mean hologram bands.” I return my focus to Elodie, though my mind lingers on the memory of the torch singer and the hypnotic song she sang.
Elodie tips her glass to her lips. “Do I?” She grins coyly. “Anyway, tell me about your Trip. I want to hear all the juicy details.”
I uncross my legs, settle deeper into my seat. “It was all pretty standard,” I lie. “Though there is something I was wondering…”
She shifts closer to the edge of her cushion and leans toward me. Her face lit with anticipation, as though the moment she’s been waiting for has finally arrived. The moment when I accuse her of things of which I have no proof, so she can go running to Arthur, and I can be stripped of Blue status and demoted to work as her maid.
My fingers play at the stem of my drink, my gaze locked on hers. “When you Trip back to times like that, are you ever tempted to smuggle in things like tampons and birth control? You know, to give our bygone sisters some semblance of autonomy over their lives?”
For a moment, Elodie freezes. Then I watch as she breaks into the sort of full-bodied laugh that has her rocking back in her seat so abruptly, she inadvertently splashes her drink down the front of her dress—a slinky sequined slip nearly the same creamy buttermilk shade as her skin.
Between the dress and the way she wears her blond hair coiled high on her head, she looks startlingly similar to the sculpture ofDeceit, and I can’t help but wonder if the look is deliberate, intended to taunt me.
Though it’s also entirely possible that, where she’s concerned, I’ve grown so paranoid, everything surrounding her falls under a veil of suspicion.
Elodie continues to laugh as she reaches for a cocktail napkin to sop up the stain on her dress. And while I know it’s not the accusation she braced for, I’m glad I managed to amuse her, if for no other reason than it served to lighten the mood.
“Can you even imagine?” she says. “We’d probably be dragged before an all-male council, who’d waste no time accusing us of witchcraft so they could get their rocks off watching us burn at the stake.” She shakes her head and tacks on a grimace. “No thanks.”
And just like that, the tension between us has vanished. We’re friends again. Or, at least on the surface.
And then it dawns on me that maybe the superficial appearance of friendship and loyalty is all Elodie is capable of.
Maybe she’s been under Arthur’s wing for so long, molded under his hand, forced into playing various roles, and made to compete for his favor, that she has no idea how to be a good friend—has no idea who she really is outside of performing for him.
