Free Born of Deception by Teri Brown

Calypso’s are as varied as the wind, always moving from one direction to another. Though her mercurial personality is a part of her charm, I wonder if it won’t get a bit exhausting.
    As much as I want to feel the same way about Calypso as she seems to feel about me, I just don’t make friends that quickly. Cynthia was an exception. I’d spent my life skirting the outside of polite society. Girls who worked in circuses, helped their mother set up fake séances designed to cheat people out of money, and escaped from handcuffs for fun weren’t invited to birthday parties given by nice children. Making friends with girls my own age isn’t one of my talents. Cynthia and I became friends simply because nothing gets in the way of what Cynthia wants and for some reason, she wanted me.
    So while I’m grateful for Calypso’s ardent offer of friendship, it’s a challenge for me to be as open as she is. It’s just not in me. However, I’m determined to try. I could use a friend in London and at the Society. Aside from Cole, that is.
    “Have you heard anything about Pratik?” I ask.
    She shakes her head. “No. That’s all everyone is talking about right now and my stomach can’t take any more worry.”
    For a moment I sense her anxiety and then her mood changes as she sees something in a shop window. She drags me over. “We’re going in,” she informs me.
    “I thought the whole point of window-shopping was to not go in,” I protest, but she just laughs, her extraordinary black eyes sparkling.
    The inside is done in black and white and minimally decorated—one of those shops where everything screams French and expensive. The kind my mother always wanted to shop at but couldn’t until recently. But the hats are simply lovely. A black felt knockabout with a rolled brim and tangerine and turquoise decorative beading captures my rapt attention.
    “It’s beautiful! Try it on,” Calypso urges.
    “Oh, I don’t know.” I’m not in love with clothes like my mother is. The deprivation and uncertainty of my early years made stashing money under my mattress more desirable than spending it on dresses. But there are times like this, when I see something that takes my breath away and I understand why some women spend so much money on glad rags.
    Calypso takes the hat off the stand. “It’s perfect for you.”
    Knockabout hats are sportier than cloches and for a moment I get a vision of wearing it out driving in Cole’s motorcar. I feel myself weaken.
    A slim-skirted salesgirl in a rose-colored sweater and a wrist full of bangles joins us. “It would go beautifully with your dark hair and blue eyes. You should try it on.”
    I take a deep breath. “I’ll do it.”
    We move in front of a mirror and I remove my black cloche with the silk flower on the side. Calypso places the knockabout on my head and then adjusts it.
    “Ouch!” I jerk away as my hair is pulled.
    “I’m sorry! My ring got tangled in your hair.”
    I stare at her for a moment in the mirror. Her eyes are full of apology. “It’s all right,” I tell her even though my scalp still tingles.
    Then I look in the mirror and forget about the incident because the hat is perfect, perfect, perfect and I know I have to have it. “How much?” I ask.
    “Fifteen guineas.”
    I struggle to convert the amount to dollars in my head so I can put it in context. It sounds like an awful lot to me. I turn to Calypso for help, but she’s watching the salesgirl, a look of concentration on her face.
    “That’s too much money,” Calypso tells her, a small smile playing about her delicately pink lips.
    The woman smiles back, her manner pleasant. “We’re a one-price store. No bargaining.”
    Still Calypso stares, her black eyes almost opaque. “No. It’s too much money.”
    I take off the hat, staring from one to the other. What’s going on? A tingle brushes across my arms like a prickly caress, and the salesgirl nods sadly. “It is too expensive,” she