Page 18 of The Stolen Queen

As if summoned by the very mention of her name, a door opened and the woman herself appeared. She held the boa high in one hand, the ends draping down, her other hand resting on her hip. She appeared to be in her seventies and was exceedingly narrow everywhere: hips, bust; even her face was long and thin. At first, Annie would have described her as horsey, but when she moved, it was with an air of authority that rendered traditional ideas of beauty or ugliness irrelevant. Thick black hair rose high above her forehead, and her cheeks were slashed with red blush that extended all the way to her earlobes.

Diana Vreeland. The most fashionable woman in New York City.

“Listen up, girls,” said Vreeland in a low growl. “I had Wanda reach out to docents old and new for ideas to adorn the neckline of the Zobeida costume fromScheherazade. I explained that the dancer who wore it was known for posing in a photograph with a snake from the Bronx Zoo, which I thought made my intentions quite clear. Nota half hour later, I’m handed a boa the color of pickles. So now, I have one question: Who brought this disastrous object into my lair?”

Priscilla and Mona both turned to look at Annie. She could run from the room, but Mrs. H would ask about the boa. She had no choice.

Trembling, she lifted her arm into the air.

“Um, that was me.”

In the bright lights of the Costume Institute workshop, Diana Vreeland stared at Annie like she was from another planet.

Annie lowered her hand down by her side. She’d never felt so conspicuous, so out of her element as she did in this room of well-coiffed Upper East Side doyennes. Not only was she twice the size of most of them, her hair hung limply down her shoulders from the damp mist outside, and her skin was shiny and pasty. Her very presence in this pristine, select environment was like a pustule, and now all eyes were on her.

“Mrs. Hollingsworth sent me with the boa,” Annie explained weakly. “She wanted to help.”

At the mention of Mrs. H’s name, it was as if the entire room let out its breath. Mrs. Vreeland threw back her head with a throaty laugh. “Ah, that Nora. Always putting me on, a gag gift for a giggle, I suppose. How is the darling’s hip? Or is it her arm?”

“Her knee,” said Annie with relief, although she was fairly certain Mrs. H had sent over the boa in a sincere attempt to help out, not as a joke. “She’s getting around much better now.”

“Wanda!” called out Mrs. Vreeland.

The girl came running. “Yes.”

“Why didn’t youtellme that this was from Mrs. Hollingsworth? I can’t possibly manage without thefullinformation, you see.”

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Vreeland.” At that, Wanda burst into tears.

Mrs. Vreeland stared at her, unbothered. “I can’t have simperingaround me, not now. It’s too close to our deadline for tears. Off you go, thank you, dear, that’s all we’ll need from you.” She handed Wanda the boa. “And give this to that young lady on your way out.”

Wanda scampered away, throwing the boa at Annie as she exited the room, bursting into heaving sobs before the door to the Costume Institute had even closed. Annie felt terrible for her, but at the same time, she didn’t quite see what was so upsetting. Mrs. Vreeland wasn’t yelling, wasn’t throwing things.

“Listen, everyone,” said Mrs. Vreeland, clapping her hands twice. “I’m going to try again.” She trotted over to a mannequin wearing a pearl-encrusted leotard in white and dark blue, with poufy silk leggings that cascaded down to the ankle. “You must keep in mind thatScheherazade’s Zobeida is the favorite wife of the king. But she’s also a sensuous woman who desperately needs love. She’s still young, and I imagine she has a peacock and loves cinnamon and flowers. It’s important we get this right. Fashion must be the most intoxicating release from the banality of the world.” She paused. “Nowdo you understand what I’m looking for?”

Annie looked around in astonishment as the other women nodded their heads knowingly. She’d mentioned snakes earlier, and now peacocks, and something about banality.

But what on earth did that have to do with the neckline of the costume?

Strangely enough, Annie was dying to know the answer.

Chapter Seven

Charlotte

New York City, 1978

When Charlotte finally made it home that evening, she was greeted by the rich scent of Indian spices.

“I thought we were ordering in,” she called out to Mark as she tossed her keys on the small table in the foyer. “Are you cooking?”

“Wait, don’t come into the kitchen yet,” Mark answered.

Charlotte patiently stood on the other side of the swinging door that opened into the kitchen of the Central Park West apartment she shared with Mark. In many ways, it was still his apartment, or his parents’ apartment, more precisely. He’d grown up here, stayed on after his parents passed away, married and had a daughter, got divorced, and then roamed the oversized prewar rooms in mourning after his ex-wife and four-year-old child moved to Los Angeles. After all those upheavals, the place still had the same dining room table, rugs, and sofas as when he’d been a child. His ex-wife, Beverly, had redone the kitchen a sickly avocado green, but they’d separated beforeshe could get her hands on the rest of the rooms, which was probably a good thing.

Charlotte had met Mark twelve years ago, when her friend Helen—who worked as a conservator at the museum—dragged her to an awful off-Broadway play in the West Village. At the time, Charlotte lived in a studio apartment on Charles Street, sleeping in a loft bed left behind by a former tenant and having her morning coffee on a small balcony that looked out on a surprisingly healthy magnolia tree, considering the backyard was hemmed in by brownstones. She’d only gone to the play because it was within walking distance, and she was looking forward to having a glass of wine with Helen after.

When a man walked up to Charlotte during intermission and asked what she thought of the play, she’d immediately replied “Ghastly.” Why that particular word came to mind was beyond her, as it wasn’t a word she’d ever used before. The play was about a bunch of shipwrecked intellectuals discussing obscure philosophies, and their elevated language had unintentionally slipped into her vocabulary.

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