All That Lives Must Die

Everyone seemed to like her. . which, ironically, made Fiona suspicious.

Amanda had her face plastered to the window, gawking at the blurry scenery.

They flashed by billboards covered with the backward s of Cyrillic writing. They had to be in Russia.

“How long now?” Amanda whispered.

“Just a few minutes.” Dallas poured them both more iced tea from a silver thermos.

Earlier, when Fiona had protested that she needed to study, Dallas told her that she was right: She really didn’t need a shopping trip to Paris. She said that Fiona looked almost perfect in her Paxington uniform, and that she was nearly the flower of womanhood.

Fiona got the message.

Almost. Nearly. Two lousy adverbs that communicated loud and clear that she still was awkward and nerdy, and likely a total embarrassment to the League of Immortals.

So here she was, getting a stupid fashion makeover on a school night.

She looked over at Amanda to watch her expression at their magical journey. But she wasn’t blown away like when Fiona and Eliot had first ridden in one of Henry’s cars.

Had she driven with Uncle Henry before? Maybe when he took her home after they’d rescued her? What did Amanda’s parents think of her going to Paxington? They were probably normal people. So why did they let her go to a dangerous school full of magic and Immortals?

“So where do you live?” Fiona asked Amanda.

Amanda turned from the window and looked at the floor. She paled and twisted her hands. “In the dorms on campus,” she murmured. “It’s easier that way. For everyone.”

“We’re there,” Dallas said, and her eyes sparkled. “Driver, slow down. I want them to see absolutely everything.”

Smears of head-and taillights resolved into traffic. The limousine turned onto the Boulevard Peripherique. Strings of lights draped over manicured trees and the classic architecture of every building. Statues glowed as if dipped in silver.

They angled onto Avenue des Champs-Elysees and Fiona’s breath caught as she saw the towering Arc de Triomphe, gleaming a rosy gold in a column of illumination.

Dallas sighed. “There’s no time to see it all. And I think your mother would kill me if I got you home too late. A pity.” To the Driver she said, “Take us to Art d’air.” [25]

The car turned onto smaller and smaller streets. Only the occasional lamppost punctuated the darkness now as they twisted onto byways so narrow that Fiona feared they’d scrape the walls. . although the Driver managed to squeak through somehow.

The buildings here weren’t classic architecture or decorated with gold lights; they were crumbling brick and leaning against one another as if too tired to stand by themselves.

The limo halted before a storefront, its windows partially boarded. A spot of light cast from a wrought-iron lamppost revealed a sign over the doorway with curling vapors rising about a cavorting nymph.

“We’re here!” Dallas said gleefully.

She started to get out.

“I thought we were going shopping,” Fiona said.

“My dear, I could have taken you to Gucci or Prada, but this is where those designers come to steal their best ideas. I wouldn’t dream of giving you more secondhand things to wear.”

She meant Cecilia’s clothes: hand-stitched with love but also with an amazing lack of skill. . things she had found at deep-discount stores and then altered to fit. . or not fit, as the case might be.

The older Driver held out a hand and helped Dallas out, then Fiona, and Amanda.

It smelled like someone had urinated on the nearby wall.

Down the street, a group of boys eyed them. There were seven of them. They looked dangerous and hungry. They spoke to one another, and one called out to them-French so gutturally accented and drunkenly slurred that Fiona couldn’t decipher a word.

Dallas shouted back-the same primitive dialect-and then made a rude gesture.

The boys all laughed at the one who had yelled at her.

“They won’t bother us,” Dallas said, and entered the store.

Her Driver remained with the car and polished the side mirror.

Fiona glanced one last time at the gang-she didn’t like their looks-and then hurried Amanda in front of her into the shop.

Inside were mirrors: silver dusted and gold variegated, lit with soft lighting and angled so Fiona couldn’t help but look at a dozen copies of herself and Amanda. Aunt Dallas smiled at herself and preened.

Between the mirrors hung red curtains and velvet wallpaper. There were racks of clothes as far back as Fiona could see. Everything emitted a faint flowery perfume.

A model runway ran down the length of the store. Floor lights flickered on, and an old woman hobbled down the raised platform. She was impeccably dressed in black slacks and shirt and high heels that barely brought her up to Fiona’s chin.

“We’re closed,” she croaked in a thickly accented voice and shooed them away. “Forever closed! Go away.”

Her scowl dropped as she saw Aunt Dallas. “Oh, it’s you, Lady. A thousand apologies. Come in, come in.” She smiled and bowed. “Can I have coffee or tea or perhaps some Kirschwasser brought out for you?”

“Nothing for me, Madame Cobweb. We are working on my niece tonight.” She nodded at Fiona. “And her charming friend, Miss Lane.”

The old woman’s eyes grew wide. “The Fiona Post? Yes. . I see the resemblance. To the mother as well. Stunning. Grace and beauty just now budding.” She fumbled the glasses on a silver chain about her neck and donned them, taking a more careful, much longer look.

Fiona felt like she’d been set under a microscope and every pimple and too-large pore exposed.

“Yeeees. Exquisite material. Both of them. But Paxington girls? Those uniforms-something must be done.” Madame Cobweb said Paxington like it was a rare tropical disease. Like she and Amanda needed to be quarantined.

“Maybe this wasn’t a great idea,” Amanda whispered, and took a step back. “I’ll just wait in the car. . ”

“We shall hear none of that,” the old woman said. “Beautiful girls must wear beautiful things. Come, I measure you.”

Dallas wrapped her arms around Amanda and Fiona and drew them along to Madame Cobweb. “It won’t hurt,” she said. “Much. Probably.”

Madame Cobweb took out a tape measure and zipped it across Fiona’s shoulders and down her back, making tut-tut noises. “They should not have been let out in these rags.” She turned her about and measured her chest-first above, then directly over, and then she measured under as well. “Needs lifting and definition,” she said.

Fiona’s face burned, but she endured the handling rather than letting any of them see how self-conscious she was.

“You know how that horrid Miss Westin is with her tweed and slavish devotion to Victorian styles,” Dallas said, rolling her eyes. “We’re lucky they’re not in whalebone corsets.”

Madame Cobweb measured Amanda, who let her move and pose her like a doll.

She then examined the numbers on her notepad. “I have many things in their sizes. My latest creations.”

“Very well,” Dallas said, and tiny frown appeared on her lips. “But you will make a few things, just for them, no?”

“But of course, M’lady. Originals. Only the best.” Madame Cobweb moved to the back of the shop. “One moment, please.”

Fiona turned. “Aunt Dallas, this is great. Really. But we’re wearing uniforms all day. When are we going to need anything else?” She made a little frustrated motion with her hands.