“If anything goes wrong and you need to escape, use one of the loopholes in the security shield around the Palais.” He reached back toward the hologram and zoomed out until the perimeter fence was in view. “Mabelle engineered them years ago, and as far as I know, all four are still intact. She marked their locations by bending the fleur-de-lis ornament at a slight angle.” He pointed to three spots around the perimeter of the fence before dragging his finger to a fourth point near one of the numerous gardens. “This one is closest to the banquet, so it’s our best escape route.”
“Why aren’t we just using those to sneak into the banquet?” Chatine asked.
“Too risky.” Marcellus shook his head. “There are always extra guards on patrol during Ascension banquets. We’re far better off entering as guests.”
Chatine nodded, but still didn’t look convinced.
“Which means you’re going to have to blend in with the other guests.” Cerise turned to riffle through the rows of hangers behind her. “Marcellus, you can borrow one of Papa’s tuxedos, and for Chatine …” She paused and plucked a hanger from the rack. A plume of pale green fabric seemed to spill out into the closet like a gushing fountain. It was long and billowy with a never-ending train of silk and ruffles. “This color will be wonderful with your complexion.”
Marcellus had never seen a more horrified expression than the one that had just descended over Chatine’s face.
Chatine barked out a dark laugh. “You’re joking, right?”
Cerise looked down at the dress, confused. “I don’t joke about ball gowns.”
“I’m not wearing that.” Chatine was eyeing the explosion of a dress like it was made of jagged shards of glass, not what appeared to be layers of fine Samsarian silk.
“But you have to. It’s the Ascension banquet. Everyone will be dressed up. Even the Third Estaters.” She opened a drawer and pulled out a pair of long silk gloves. “And these will cover the scar from your Skin.”
Chatine crossed her arms over her chest. “I haven’t worn a dress since I was eight years old, and I’m certainly not going to start again now.”
“Well, what did you expect to do? Waltz into the gardens wearing that?”
Chatine glanced down at her Défecteur clothes and a shadow of doubt flickered over her face. “I … ,” she began, but her voice trailed off.
“This is the Grand Palais. You have to blend in. And if you don’t blend in, you die!”
Everyone startled at Cerise’s drastic change of tone. Her mood seemed to have gone from confident to morbid in an instant. Clearly, the stress of this endeavor was taking its toll on all of them.
“Or maybe you want to break into the Ministère headquarters and hack the guest list and I’ll go to the banquet.” Cerise went on, her voice still strained.
Chatine’s arms fell back to her sides, and without another word, she reached out and took the dress from Cerise.
“Merci,” Cerise said tightly. “Oh, and one more thing.” She disappeared around a corner of the closet and returned a moment later holding what looked like a clump of human hair.
“A wig?” Chatine asked in disbelief.
“As much as I love this look.” Cerise gestured to Chatine’s short crop of newly grown hair. “Very razor chic. I do worry it might make you look like you just escaped from Bastille.”
“I did just escape from Bastille.”
“Right.” Cerise extended out the wig.
As Chatine took it and ran her fingers through the long, dark brown locks, a disturbed, almost haunted expression passed over her face. “This looks a lot like the hair I sold two years ago.”
Cerise flashed a hurried smile. “Good, then it’ll look natural. And you.” She reeled on Marcellus and squinted at his face like he was out of focus. “Hmm. The stubble definitely helps. And we’ll get you a hat. But it won’t be enough.” She rummaged around in another drawer before pulling out a pair of dark Sol-glasses and handing them over.
Marcellus slid the glasses over his eyes and watched the closet tint a reddish gold. It made him think of Albion sunsets and death. He slid the glasses off before refocusing on the hologram.
“Alouette and Cerise, you will be here.” He maneuvered the map away from the Palais and pushed in on the dark structure that sat like a giant festering wound amidst the vibrant colors of the rest of Ledôme. The two black towers of the Ministère headquarters soared out of the hologram like a pair of