Free Ironskin by Tina Connolly Page A

what to make of it, if she were here.” Her voice faltered on the final word.
    Jane touched Helen’s arm. “I know you miss her.”
    “And I’m sure you missed her in the city, after you left us,” said Helen, brightly, sharply, and Jane’s hand fell away. “But we’re not digging up unpleasant pasts today. Not for my wedding.” She dropped the decreamed cake sections to her saucer and smiled at Jane as if willing things to be all right. “Go on, eat, before I clean off this entire tray.” Helen’s fingers hovered over another slice. “But everyone says Silver Birch is enormous, one of those grand old fey-built estates. They probably have cream cakes out the ears. I suppose if he doesn’t chop you into bits, you can sneak me into some brilliant party there and we’ll make off with a bottle of sherry and an entire cake and go looking for all those slaughtered ex-wives.”
    “I don’t think he has parties,” said Jane. “They live simply.” In truth she suspected that money was tight, but she didn’t like the idea of gossiping about her employer. To assuage Helen she picked up a small triangle of rose-scented cake and tried to turn the subject away from Helen’s gruesome imaginings. “Won’t there be lots of food today? Were there problems with rations?”
    “Bosh,” said Helen, separating another cake slice. “The Great War is over, Jane, no matter what your country friends think. Rations simply don’t apply to someone like Alistair. Why do you think I picked him? Not just for his charm. People with money can save you, Jane—if they want to. But you take the bad with the good—you see how practical I have become, on my own—and today that means excess. He has the staff making mountains of cakes, chilling waterfalls of champagne. And really, it will be glorious, won’t it? But I can’t do this while people are watching.” She demonstrated what she couldn’t do by sucking pink cream filling from the sponge. “Anyway, that’s ages away. I still have an entire ceremony to get through without fainting, and so do you. Did you bring something nice to wear?”
    “My best,” said Jane, referring to the navy frock with short sleeves. “You’ve seen it.”
    Helen made a face. “You’ll wear something of mine.” She raised a cream-smeared finger, forestalling Jane’s protests. “You will. We’re the same size in everything but shoes. If you had a blond wig then from behind we’d look the same. Not even Alistair could tell us apart, I’m sure of it. You could take my place today, and wouldn’t that be a laugh? I wonder what he’d say when he found out.”
    Jane’s protest subsided under this flight of fancy. Even knowing Helen’s sartorial tastes, the dress was a small battle, and the next point was a bigger one. “All right,” she said. “As long as I can wear my veil.”
    *   *   *
    The wedding was beautiful, the reception long. There were plenty of the little cream-filled cakes, but Jane didn’t see Helen eat anything at all. She moved through the party in her slim white frock like a ghost, her honey-hued hair in coiled curls contained by the pearl combs. “Fey beauty,” croaked an old auntie next to Jane, and then she was rewarded by hostile stares from the ladies around her. That was a saying from long ago. Not today.
    Jane herself felt quite odd and otherworldly. Helen had insisted on fixing her veil so it was short and gauzy, not the long swathes of fabric Jane normally used. If Jane had had her normal veil she would have adjusted the layers to cover the front of her borrowed dress. Helen’s dressmakers had been busy providing her with a whole new wardrobe, and this was one of those dresses.
    “But I can’t stand it,” Helen had said. “I don’t care how chic the color is, it washes me out. I wore it to Mrs. Wilmot’s tea party last week and her daughter Annabella just bumped right into me, in front of everyone. And then drawled, ‘Oh, I’m sorry I didn’t