Free Velvet Undercover by Teri Brown Page A

mannerisms, either,” Miss Tickford says when I bring up my concerns.
    She joins me at the table and sets out a wooden box containing several small pots. “But there is one thing that you must learn immediately,” she says.
    â€œWhat’s that?” I frown as she takes the lids off the pots, revealing two different rouge-color ointments and one powder. “Don’t tell me that Sophia Thérèse was devoted to cosmetics?”
    â€œNo. But you’re about to be.”
    I frown. “I don’t understand.”
    â€œSophia Thérèse had a small crescent-shaped birthmark on her right cheekbone.”
    My mouth opens. “I can’t fake a birthmark!”
    Miss Tickford smiles. “Oh, yes, you can.”
    I shuffle through Sophia Thérèse’s photographs again. “I don’t see one . . .” I stop, realizing that her face was always angled so that the camera caught only her left side. Then I come across the one of her as a toddler. I point. “She doesn’t have one here.”
    â€œThat photo was hand-colored,” Miss Tickford says. “Her parents must have had it tinted out. We’ll practice until you are comfortable duplicating the same mark over and over. And don’t worry, you’ll get used to it. Now put that stuff down and hold still.”
    I do as she says, and before I know it, I’m staring in the mirror. The mark isn’t too big but it’s definitely visible, andit makes me feel self-conscious. I wonder if Sophia Thérèse felt the same way and remember that her parents had the birthmark tinted out of her baby picture. My throat tightens in sympathy. No wonder she always turned her face away from the camera.
    â€œNow let’s go. We have to pick up a few things for you to assume your new identity.”
    â€œLike this?” I ask, and am immediately ashamed of myself. Poor Sophia Thérèse.
    â€œYou might as well get used to it,” Miss Tickford says matter-of-factly.
    Luxembourg City may be shadowed by the fortress that overlooks it, but the city itself is quite modern. Miss Tickford is wearing a smart gray walking suit with a black toque set atop her upswept hair. I feel out of place in the same wrinkled dress I’ve been wearing for the past two days. At least my coat covers most of it. We’ve already ordered a whole new ready-to-wear wardrobe for my new identity. Two walking suits, four simple blouses, and three fitted skirts with matching jackets.
    Miss Tickford takes my arm and steps briskly down the street. “Now we go to the hairdresser.”
    â€œThe hairdresser?” My voice rises at the end.
    Her lips quirk upward in a smile. “How do you think we’re going to make you look like a woman of twenty?”
    I screw up my face, wondering what she means. Sophia Thérèse had white-blond hair, much like I do. Miss Tickford can’t possibly mean she is going to have mine dyed. Thatwouldn’t make any sense at all.
    A few moments later, she takes me into a hair salon on a small alley just off the Boulevard Royal. A tall, slender man cries out and rushes toward us, babbling something in Luxembourgish. Miss Tickford replies, speaking so quickly that I know she must be fluent.
    She touches his cheek briefly, then switches to German. “Antoine, this is Sophia Thérèse. I’ve brought her to pay homage to your genius.”
    I yelp as Antoine plucks out my hairpins and untwists my hair. Unbound, it falls to my waist.
    â€œShe wants to look older,” Miss Tickford says.
    â€œWe’ll go with a bob, then. With that bone structure and those curls, she’ll look just like a golden-haired Polaire.”
    I blink, not at all sure my traditional mother would appreciate the comparison to the famous French actress and café singer.
    â€œYou’re going to love it, you’ll see.” Then he picks up his shears and they hover over my head.
    I