most fabulous Hennessy. Then she signed it flawlessly: Breck Myrtle.
Jordan pushed the paper to the partygoers for their assessment.
There were delighted noises. Laughs. A few sounds of mock dismay.
Breck Myrtle, the partygoer in question, had a complicated reaction to this. “How did you … ?”
“She’s got you, Breck,” said one of the other women. “That’s perfect.”
“Isn’t she scary?” asked TJ.
None of them had seen the scariest bits of her—not by a long shot. If Breck Myrtle kept talking, Jordan could’ve learned to predict his way of using language, too, and she could use that knowledge to compose personal letters and emails and texts instead of having to hide in formal contractual language. Forgery was a skill transferrable to many media, even if she generally used them more in her personal than business life.
“You’re so young for crime,” laughed one of the other women.
“She’s just coming into her powers,” TJ said.
But Jordan had been pretty well into her powers for a while. Both she and the real Hennessy were art forgers. The other girls in their house dabbled in it, but they were more properly copyists. Jordan found there was a tendency to misunderstand—to conflate—art forgers with copyists. The art world had plenty of artists who could replicate famous paintings down to every last fold in a sleeve. Copies, Hennessy would say contemptuously, are not art. A true forgery was a new painting made in the style of the original artist. To copy an existing Matisse was nothing: All one needed was a grid system and a good understanding of color and technique. To forge a new Matisse, one must not only paint like Matisse, but one must also think like Matisse. That, Hennessy would say, is art.
And Jordan would agree.
A doorbell ring cut through the nineties music.
Jordan’s heart flopped with anticipation.
“Bernie!” TJ said. “You don’t have to ring the bell like a stranger! Come in, straggler!”
Jordan was still friendly with TJ, but she wouldn’t have partied with his more boring friends without an ulterior motive. And here the motive was: a woman in a smart, purple pantsuit and tinted round glasses. Bernadette Feinman. With her silver hair gripped tight in a glinting pearl claw, Feinman looked like the only adult in the room. She looked not only like an adult but also like an adult ready to make a coat out of one hundred and one Dalmatians. Unknown to probably everyone else in the room, Feinman was also one of the gatekeepers for the DC Fairy Market, a rotating, global, underground black market that traded in all sorts of prestigious illegal goods and services. Emphasis on prestigious.
Not just any old criminal could display wares at the Market. You had to be a high-class criminal.
Jordan wanted in. She needed in.
Bernadette Feinman would decide.
Feinman stepped deeper into the house. She had a creaky, particular way of walking, like a mantis, but when she spoke, her voice was soft and melodic. “I would say I didn’t mean to be late, but I think we should be honest with each other.”
TJ pressed a drink into her hand, looking like a little boy cautiously making sure a respected grandmother had everything she needed. Everyone else got beer, Jordan noted, but Feinman got a stem glass with a leggy white wine for one hand and a clove cigarette for the other.
“This is Bernie, guys. She’s my Yoda, my mentor, so let’s drink to our elders!” TJ said. He kissed her cheek. The partygoers drank to their elders, and then they turned on the PS2.
Feinman leaned over the table to look at the signatures. She raised her gaze to Jordan. “So you’re Hennessy. Surely this isn’t all you’ve got.”
Jordan flashed a huge grin at her. Her world-eating grin, full of confidence and goodwill. No sign of nerves or how important this was to her.
TJ frowned a little. “What, Bernie?”
“Hennessy’s interviewing for a spot at the agency.” Feinman lied so swiftly that Jordan wondered if she’d had the lie prepared before she got there.
“Doing biz at my party?” TJ said. “You’re supposed to pay the daily rate for my living room conference room if it’s for business purposes.”
Feinman handed him her still-full glass. “Go find me some more wine, Tej.”
TJ went away, silent and obedient as a child.
Clacking silver-painted nails on Breck’s forged signature, Feinman cut through the bullshit. “I trust I’ll be looking at more than party tricks.”
“These are candy bars at the cashier,” Jordan said. “Don’t mistake them for an entrée.”