Page 46 of The Stolen Queen

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice hoarse.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

“No, there is. He was looking for you.”

“Who?”

“We shouldn’t have interfered.”

She closed her eyes, and by the next morning, she was gone. Charlotte figured her last words were those of a confused, frail woman.

Not long after, Charlotte moved out of the brownstone and into the small Greenwich Village apartment on Barrow Street, and fitted her life tightly around her job at the Met.

And that worked, for a time.

Chapter Fifteen

Annie

New York City, 1978

Annie raced home to get dressed for the Met Gala. She’d spent most of the day dealing with Mrs. Vreeland’s last-minute adjustments to the exhibition and still had to pick up the butterflies at the Museum of Natural History. Joyce was supposed to help Annie with her updo, but she wasn’t home yet.

Annie slid into her dress and gave a little shimmy. It had come out perfectly, and she loved the way the material subtly suggested the shape of her body as she moved. While she waited for Joyce, she applied her own makeup, but instead of heavy foundation and lots of color, she opted for a minimal look, emphasizing her eyebrows and lips only. In the mirror, the color of her eyes, hair, and dress became one soft, golden hue. Just as Mrs. Vreeland had said, by focusing on what made her unique—in this case her natural glow—she’d turned it into something interesting. Same with the rings on her fingers—she wore two chunky rings on one hand and three on the other, andthe jewelry provided a nice balance. She’d created a look that worked with her own body type and personality.

The last time she’d gotten this dressed up had been a disaster, and she was determined not to repeat it. Her junior year of high school, everyone went to the prom, whether they had a date or not, and Annie spent a good month working on her dress. She found a pattern that was similar to a maxi dress she’d seen in a magazine: navy with long sleeves, a ruffled collar, and a mix of large and small polka dots. It was from the Dior 1970 spring/summer haute couture collection, perfectly accessorized with a wide black leather belt.

“It’s smart to keep your arms and legs covered, and I like the high neck as well,” her mother had said as Annie modeled it the night of the prom. “How about I do your makeup and hair?”

Annie had sat in the kitchen chair as her mother spread the contents of her professional makeup kit—which was the size of a small suitcase—across the table. “We’ll go with a bright pink lipstick and tan foundation,” Joyce said. “That will take care of the ruddiness of your skin, and we don’t want to accent those chubby cheeks of yours. For the eyes, I have a navy shadow that perfectly matches the dress.”

When Annie looked in the mirror after she’d finished, she had mixed feelings. Her skin tone was far from her natural one, veering toward orange, and her eyes practically disappeared into her skull. The cascade of curls in her hair was already going limp, but Joyce sprayed them with a generous layer of Aqua Net that made Annie’s eyes water.

Joyce was a professional model; Annie just had to trust her.

Annie had walked into the gym where the prom was being held to discover all the other girls wearing layers of lacy pastels with empire waists, like a flock of Bo-Peeps missing their sheep, and long, straight hair with little or no makeup. In comparison, Annie lookedlike a Mack Truck wearing lipstick. No one spoke to her other than the geography teacher, Mr. Williams. She’d held out for twenty-five minutes before fleeing.

Tonight, at the Party of the Year, it would be different.

The front door opened and slammed shut.

“Mom?” Annie called out. “Where have you been? I have to be out of here in ten minutes.”

Joyce came up from behind Annie in the bathroom. She stared intently into the mirror. “Wow. That’s some look you’ve got going there.”

The vagueness of the statement made Annie uneasy. Maybe she had no idea what she was doing, and this was going to be another debacle where she’d be laughed out of the museum and find herself out of a job.

“I like it,” she said weakly.

“Do you want me to do your eyes?”

“No. I’m going to leave them like this.”

She diverted her mother’s attention, worried that she’d insist on doing it her way. “Do you want to try on your dress before I go? We’ll meet in the Great Hall, okay? I’ll introduce you to Mrs. Vreeland, and I made sure you’re sitting at a good table for dinner. Your hair looks nice. Were you just at the salon?” With Annie’s new salary, the thought of spending money on a hairdresser didn’t set off financial alarm bells in her head the way it used to.

Joyce patted her coiffure. “Thanks. But I’m afraid I can’t make it tonight.”

Annie spun around. “What? You’re not going? Why not?”

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