Page 26 of Foresyth Conservatory
Sometimes daughters do too,I thought. But I didn’t say anything.
“Oh, never mind that. I just hate it when he’s so cruel to me.”
“Then why are you with him?” I finally let out.Why betroth a potential murderer?was what I really wanted to ask. But the evidence I had against him held as much weight as Sequoia’s Druid paper, even if he did try to poison me the first night at Foresyth.
Sequoia gestured to the space next to her. I took the seat, if only to make my face less visible to hers. It was easier to lie in profile.
“Dahlia, you’re like a breath of fresh air in this stuffy House. I want us to be friends,” she said, taking my hand.Her skin was silky smooth over my dry hands. She held them for a while before breaking apart and standing up from the bed. She ran her fingers through her hair, turning to me again. “Why don’t we get you out of these clothes,” she said.
My neck turned red, and I lifted up the collar of my sweater to conceal it. I pretended to sniff it. “I smell that bad?”
She laughed a melodious tune. “No, it’s not that . . . it’s just, these colors are too drab. They wash you out.” She stood and crossed the room to her armoire. “You know, it’s in the handbook—the dress code, I mean.”
“I know,” I said nonchalantly. “But I like my clothes as they are. Besides, I don’t have anything bright or patterned.”
“Well, that’s why you have me.” Sequoia turned, holding up a turquoise sweater. “This’ll bring out the beautiful blues of your eyes.” She handed the sweater to me. I took it, admiring the soft dyed wool between my fingers. It was certainly warmer than the one I had on and was made of a heavier thread. A siren bearing gifts?
I considered my options. If I didn’t take it from her, she’d likely take offense. But if I did . . . it might help me in winning her over. Counterintuitively, human psychology tends toward favoring those for whom we do good. If I let her do me a favor, she’d be much closer to believing we were genuine friends.
“I’ll have to repay you somehow,” I said, biting my lip to feign hesitancy.
“Nonsense, that’s what friends are for,” she sang.
Friends, the familiar word echoed in my chest. Had I really been that effective at coaxing trust out of all these suspects that they extended their friendship so easily? Nina,and now Sequoia. At this rate, I’d find myself in bed with Aspen next. I blushed at the thought, cursing my foul expression, and refocused my attention to the sweater in my hands.
I looked up and sat frozen, searching her for deception.
After a moment, she burst into a fit of laughter, saying, “Well, aren’t you going to try it on?”
“Right.” I gulped, wiggling off my grey sweater. Sequoia turned to give me privacy, and I was grateful she wouldn’t see my threadbare undergarments, lest she’d make me get rid of those too. I slipped the blue sweater over my head, pulling my braid through the top. The fabric was soft and plush against my cooled skin.
“You look fantastic!” Sequoia squealed, spinning around again. “Now, let’s look for a skirt for you . . .”
“Wait, that’s not really my style,” I started to protest. I hadn’t meant for this to get so out of hand.
“But you’re a woman, Dahlia, unless I’m mistaken. It would do you some good to show off your feminine shape.” I looked down at myself, at the slight undulation of my breasts and hips. I’d never paid them much attention.
“I—” I stammered.
“Look,” Sequoia said, turning away from the armoire and coming back to the bed. “Don’t let the boys fool you—there’s nothing wrong with being a woman.”
“I’ve never considered it much,” I said. “I’ve always found myself relating more to my father than my mother in everything,” I admitted. If friends were what she wanted to be, I had to make a show of vulnerability. The easiest lies were always the ones closest to the truth.
Sequoia sighed softly. “I wish I had known my father,” she said. “Maybe that’s the reason I am the way I am. I was raised by my mother and my aunt, though truthfully more by my aunt, since my mother was always traveling with her theatre company,” she said.
“Your mother was an actress?” I echoed, letting my eyes widen just enough. I could tell it was what she wanted—recognition, a flicker of admiration. And, just as I had so often done for my patrons, I gave it to her. A performance, tailored to my needs.
Sequoia smiled. “She was. She was a musical actress, but mostly starred in smaller, foreign productions. She taught me everything I know about music.”
“That’s why you sing so beautifully,” I mused. The way her chest inflated made me feel as though I had hit my mark.
I stood, placing an arm on my hip. “Okay then, show me your set of skirts. I can’t be friends with the daughter of an actress without dressing like it.” I hated how patronizing I sounded, but Sequoia didn’t seem to mind. Her eyes lit up, and she danced across the room.
“Oh, Dahlia, I’m so proud of you for embracing change,” she said, rifling through her drawers. “It starts with clothing, but you’ll see how much it’ll affect your whole outlook on life.”
*
For the next hour, I slipped in and out of the countless garments Sequoia tossed my way, until we finally agreed on a light grey skirt with pinstripes that matched the soft weave of the sweater she had picked out. We collapsed onto the heap of discarded clothing strewn across her bed, and Icouldn’t help but laugh—light and breathless—at the sheer absurdity of it all.
