Page 162 of Gates of Tartarus

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An hour later, I’m stepping through the door of an unassuming building to find myself in Aladdin’s Cave. I squeal; before me stretch row upon row of costumes from every era and corner of the globe. Here’s an eighteenth-century gown, dripping with pearls and lace, and there’s a tasseled flapper dress with a feathered boa and elbow gloves. And the masks! Oh my word, the masks! “Oooh,” I breathe reverently.

“Come on, Maela. We’re blocking the door,” Jorge’s voice sounds behind me.

“Hmmm?” Where to begin? Where to begin?

Jorge’s hands settle on my shoulders, gently pushing me forward. “Go play. We’ll wait, umm,” he gestures towards a shelf topped with hats, “over here.”

“You should have a look too,” I murmur absently. “See what you like, so we can coordinate.”

I sense Jorge stiffen behind me. “Qué?”

“Yeah. It’ll look odd if I’m dressed up and you’re not.” I run my hands over a velvety medieval robe and sigh.

“Ma-ay-la,” Jorge says, sounding pained. “I am not getting dressed up. I am going to wear a tuxedo.” Although all of the guys are coming to the benefit, we’ve decided that Jorge will be my official escort, to keep an eye on me and sense anyone with nefarious intent.

“Oh, I don’t know, Jorge,” Kavi smirks. “I think you’d look rather fetching in this number myself.” He indicates a forest-green frock coat with gold embroidery and a foaming lace jabot.

“Maela,” Jorge’s voice is flat, “I am not wearing ruffles. Pick something from the twentieth century.”

His words break through my reverie, and I grin and look slyly at him from under my lashes. “’Kay!” I skip to a rack, and Jorge groans.

“Whaaaah?” I look innocently at him and flutter my lashes. You said twentieth century!” I hold up the blue velvet jacket and frilled shirt, à la Austin Powers, and pout.

“No!”

“Spoilsport! I could totally rock this shift dress.”

“Youwouldlook great in that,” Kavi observes. He’s got his arms crossed and is leaning back against a table.

“Wouldn’t I? Alright, fine, fine!” Jorge’s looking stormy, but I feel like pushing my luck. I prance over to another display.

“I am Don Juan QuiXOTe, the Lord of La Mancha!” I trill, as I shake the matador costume at him.

“Díos, give me strength.” Jorge closes his eyes and breathes deeply.

“You didn’t hear her sing Abba the other night,” Kavi says. “You dodged a bullet there.”

I ignore him. “And then I could be a sexyseñorita,” I explain.

Jorge opens his eyes, and a wry smile tugs up the corners of his mouth. “Querida, you’re sexy in whatever you wear. But please, please, choose something that will go with a tuxedo.”

Mollified, I turn to the 1930s section. With the help of an understanding sales assistant and after a great deal of deliberation, I choose a silver, velvet, halter-neck dress. It’s cut low in the front and backless, and the material drapes snugly over my bottom. I feeltrès chic.

“So, what did you pick?” Kavi asks as I emerge from the dressing room. “It’s only been an hour, so I hope you didn’t feel rushed.” He and Jorge are looking bored, like they can hear the siren song of the pub.

I stick my tongue out at him. “It’s a surprise. Now, masks.”

Jorge’s eyes flare with alarm, and this time Kavi groans. “Maela–”

I hold up my hand. “Let me stop you right there. It’s a masked ball. The clue’s in the name.” And I head determinedly over to the display. “I may be some time,” I murmur to the assistant. What to choose? What to choose? The art deco? The white and gold masquerade? Something with plumes? I bite my lip, agonizing, but, in the end, settle on a silvery baroque mask set with diamond paste swirls that will go perfectly with the dress. I place my order, arranging to pick everything up that Saturday.

“Happy?” Kavi asks gruffly.

“Yes,” I nod. I look at Jorge consideringly. “You know–”

“No.” He shakes his head and, placing his hands on my shoulders for the second time, turns me around.