By the door of the bathroom, a woman wearing a forest green uniform sat on a chair. She rose to open the door for Ingrid and Ingrid thanked her, which she wasn't sure was the norm or not.
Fucking rich people, she thought, and their unnecessary necessities.
But she would tell Marya about it later that night when she got back and they'd share a laugh. Or the next day, when Marya was sober.
Inside, she wetted a towelette and dabbed at her neck in the mirror. Then glancing around to make sure she was alone, she tugged down the bodice and dabbed the sweat between her breasts.
She disposed of the towelette in the tiny bin by the door then she fingered the diamond necklace on her neck, staring at her reflection.
Rather than take out her braids, Marya had simply twisted them into a high coiffure on her head, held set with a pin. She had gelled the whisps of hair on Ingrid's forehead and the base of her head into small curls. She had combed out her eyelashes, then lined Ingrid's lids with a thin brown pencil that defined her eyes but blended nicely into her skin, invisible from a distance. She touched up the rest of Ingrid's brown face with bronze and then dabbed the lightest touch of pink on her lips.
Ingrid turned slightly in the mirror. The deep blue dress accentuated her curves and made her look classy. Marya had pinned the dress at the back so it pressed tightly on her chest, leaving out slightly more cleavage over the deep neckline. The thin shawl rested delicately on her shoulders and over her forearms.
Very Isi-Town.
She forced a smile at herself. To hell with Zephyr, she thought and picked her clutch from the counter. She was dressed the most stylish she had ever been in her life and walked as a guest in one of the city's finest galleries. Her sixteen-year-old self would have died from the bliss of it.
Outside the door, Zephyr was waiting for her and apparently, his proximity broke some high rule of etiquette because the woman by the door was giving him a look of disapproval.
Ingrid thanked her again but said nothing to Zephyr as they walked from her.
He spoke first. "I'm sorry about the Kafi thing he said."
She said nothing still.
"What? So your darkest secret is that you used to want to be a ballerina? Do you know what I've found on other people who work for me?"
She said nothing but raised her eyebrow.
"'For', 'with', whichever."
He sighed.
"Come on, Ingrid. You've been in this city far too long to not realize that everyone has their dream go wrong in some way or the other. Everyone in the lower city anyway. It's nothing, it doesn't matter."
She stopped to face him. "It was more than that. You don't understand. It used to be everything to me. The only thing that mattered. You don't understand how—hard things were back home then."
His silence indicated that she should go on, his eyes watching her.
They were standing by another work of art, a painting of the seacoast of the country.
"I don't," she started then bit her lip. "I came here, some stupid little girl from Bemchov, and of course, I was out of my league here. I made a fool of myself and was rejected. "
She shrugged. "The rest is history."
Her fingers tightened on the golding railing separating them from the art on display in front of them.
She was surprised when Zephyr placed his hand on hers.
"Their loss," he said.
Obviously, he had no idea what he was talking about. But she knew it was a stupid thing to be so sensitive about.
"Yeah, I know." She let out a breath after a while. "I know."
He nudged her shoulder then reached up and caught the tear that escaped her eye before she could.
She sniffed. She was uncomfortable with this new warmth from him.
She searched her head for something else to say. As a distraction.
"Marya would kill me. I'm ruining my makeup."
"No." He glanced sideways at her. "You look as fine."
They stood silently side by side, staring at the painting.
"I brought you here because there's a job." Zephyr turned to her. "A big one. I was going to wait until after the show, hoping you'd be in a good mood first, but I guess I'll tell you now before you walk out on me."
"Are you joking?" she said, swiping at her face. "I've wanted to watch a ballet performance in this place since I was a little girl. I'd kill you before I walk out on the show."
Nana Ukja had filled her head with visions of grandeur and class when she described the places she had performed as a prima ballerina to Ingrid and showed Ingrid her black and white stage photos.
Ingrid actually counted it as one of the few purely nice moments between her and the old woman. As a little girl then, she had sat on Nana's floor, eyes wide, trying to soak all of Nana's memories and planning dreams of her own.
"If you say so," Zephyr said with an eyebrow raised. "Anyway, the city's art society is bringing a new piece to the gallery later this year. A Puscado."
He waited for it to sink in.
"It will be worth millions, Ingrid. Puscado is—"
"I know who Puscado is, Zephyr." Or at least she had a faint idea. A top artist in the country who had just died. Or was it that he was terminally ill?
"Right. So the event would have tight security, obviously, but there will be a ballet performance at the unveiling, sponsored by the dance academy."
He waited some more for this part to sink in. Ingrid thought she was starting to follow where his mind was going.
He leaned in. "It's the only way we can get access, Ingrid."