Tina Connolly - Copperhead

Her spirits began to rise with the prospect of dancing. It was emphatically not what she was here for. She was here to talk to Frye, to find those other three women that Frye had lured her here for, to convince them all to see the light, to come to Jane. To find out if they knew anything about Jane. She had done it this afternoon; she could do it again.

But, oh, the dance. Oh, how she missed the dance.

Helen followed the curve in the hallway and there in a burst of light was the party. It was a small room, too small for the number of laughing bodies that filled it. But it was gold and warm and glittering with strings of that yellow electric light. The heady smell of burning clove cigarettes drifted out, and from somewhere else, almonds. The music came from a battered upright piano in the back corner—a long-legged man in fitted sweater and wide slacks thumped out a riotous tune, and three young women in variously scarlet red, bright orange, and deep purple dresses sang with him. The one in bright orange was perched on top of the piano and was dark-skinned, slim, and so lovely that even Helen did a double take.

Well, she’d found one of the women, she thought dryly.

Chairs and stools were pushed back against the wall and in the middle, a messy glut of couples and singles danced the very latest dances, wild affairs with kicks and elbows and enthusiasm. A smile began to curve up Helen’s face. She had not seen these dances since the days at the tenpence music hall. Heaven knows they did not do them in Alistair’s house, or any of the other places she went.

A hand grabbed hers and suddenly she was in the dance, despite all her good intentions to stay on task. A good-looking chap with a riot of curls swung her in and out, and she dredged up old memories from seven months ago to keep pace with him, glad that seven months ago was not hopelessly out of date, that she was somewhat still au courant.

The piano thumped to a stop, and the curly-haired chap beckoned an invitation for the next, eyes sparkling, but she demurred, smiling at him, and threaded her way through the dancers to the doorway. The party spilled out into the next small room, and then to the balcony after that, where French doors stood ajar and brought in welcome relief. She was pleased to see that the time she had spent at her wardrobe attempting to figure out exactly what you wore to an actor’s aftershow party was not in vain; many of the girls were wearing the more up-to-the-minute higher waists and wide shoulders of her own seafoam silk. Some outfits were more daring, and some simply fit no scene that she knew at all, and she particularly studied those girls, watching to see where creativity had hit on something new and desirable.

She fetched up against a trio of giggling girls whose combination of baby fat and gangle marked them as probably too young to be here. She wondered if they were actors, too; she wondered if she had ever been that young. Behind them, a woman in an atrocious purple dress made of scraps of silk and what looked like faux fur looked out an open window into the night. She turned at Helen’s approach, and the perfection of her heart-shaped face made Helen instantly sure she had found a comrade.

You didn’t just ask, though.

“Breath of air?” she said to the wistful-looking girl.

“Bit stuffy, ain’t it?” the girl said. “It was hot in the theatre tonight, too.” She fanned herself with a discarded playbill and wafted over a cloud of rose perfume. It was the same expensive scent as Calendula Smith’s, which was both amusing and informational. This girl must have a benefactor.

“Are you an actor?” said Helen. She wondered if the girl had chosen the face for the same reason as Frye, to advance her career. But the girl’s dreadful accent would probably hold her back, she thought. Frye could switch in and out of beautiful diction at will, apparently, and Helen had paid attention to her own when she first started working as a governess, trying to eradicate any country from it. This girl sounded as though she had marbles in her mouth.

“No,” the girl said wistfully. “I’m just a dresser for Ruth.” The way she said Ruth made it sound like it was someone Helen should know. “It’s a good job and I’ve met a nice man from it but it ain’t exactly like being onstage now is it?” She crossed her long legs and it seemed to Helen that the “nice man” must be the someone who had paid for her face and scent, for surely this girl with the terrible accent had no connections or money of her own.

“I’m Helen,” she said.

“Betty,” the girl said, confirming Helen’s hunch that she was one of the three she was supposed to meet. “You been in a show with Frye?” Dull envy flashed in her eyes.

“No, we just met last night,” Helen said.

“Oh,” said Betty. “Seems like you could be. I thought this would do it,” and she gestured at the perfect face, “but seems not. Do you think the producers want something else besides face and body? ’Cause I don’t know what else I got.” Her forehead furrowed prettily. “You are like me, ain’t you?”

“Yes,” said Helen. “We are alike.” Betty nodded, and Helen followed up that line of persuasion, adding, “I often feel it didn’t really change anything inside. Do you feel that?”

This philosophical statement seemed to go over Betty’s head. “Inside? I still have the same body, I suppose. I was asleep for the part where the man did it. I was so scared when he knocked me out.”

Helen seized on this admission. “I was scared, too,” she said. “And now when I go outside, because of the fey.”

That was it. Betty’s eyes grew wide and she said, “I didn’t know there was gonna be all this fey everywhere. I have to wear my iron mask every time I leave the theatre or Richard’s flat, and Richard, that’s my man you know, he says what did he do it for if I can’t be seen, but he don’t know what it’s like to know there’s blue devils waiting to get into your bones. I don’t think a man really can know, do you?”

“No,” said Helen fervently. “Look, my sister, Jane, is helping people change back. I think you should let her help you.”

Wide eyes again, looking to Helen for help. “Do you really think I should? She scared me a bit, she was so determined I should do what she said. I don’t like being afraid, it’s just the worst feeling, worse than auditioning where your throat dries up and so on.”

“I think you should change back,” Helen said gently. “I think we all should. What about Ruth? Is she nice?”

Betty nodded emphatically. “For all she’s Ruth, she’s nicer to me even than me mum.”

“Stay with Ruth and be her dresser always. You don’t want to be onstage anyway, because it’s frightening up there. If you want to move on from dressing you should try to work up to being—” and Helen seized on what she could intuit from Betty’s dress— “a costumer. You’d be an important part of the theatre without having to be afraid.”

“Do you really think so?” said Betty. It was amazing what a smile could do for even a phenomenally pretty face. “I designed this dress even, did you have any idea?”

“Not at all,” lied Helen, “and it’s stunning. Look, I have to say hello to Frye, but as soon as my sister gets back into town we’ll set you up and she’ll get you fixed back. Is it a deal?”

Betty put out her hand, then withdrew. “Does it cost? I hate to ask Richard for yet more.”

“No, it doesn’t,” said Helen.

Betty grinned, and you could suddenly see the down-home city girl inside the fey beauty. “I’ll make you a dress of your own to thank you. You and your sister.”

Helen tried not to look startled. “That’s very kind of you, Betty. Thank you.”