Now Let's Talk of Graves by Sarah Shankman Read Free Book Online Page A

in the reserved callout section.
    “She had first dibs.” Sam nodded toward a titanic dowager upholstered in silver, who fixed them with a glacial glare.
    “Tough titty,” Kitty spat out.
    So much for grace and gentility.
    Kitty pointed toward the stage. “Here we go. Heads up. The processional’s beginning.” Trumpets blared. The masked king, a bowlegged old geezer in a short little doublet of white and silver, would have fared better in long pants than the obligatory tights. He took his seat beneath a huge sculptured crown of gold, looking for all the world like a bantam rooster. Then each of the six maids was individually presented with no less pomp than if it were her wedding day.
    “Do they have to be blond?” Sam whispered.
    “It helps. Blond and blueblooded.”
    “And rich.”
    “Not always. Some of them are born to the lace—good blood, no bucks. The organization passes the hat, but”—Kitty waggled a hand—“it’s a hard way to go. Kissing ass for all those parties and clothes.”
    A riotous fanfare cut loose. The audience stood as one and applauded.
    “Hip, hip! Hip, hip!”
    “Elizabeth the Second, no doubt,” said Sam.
    Kitty shook her head. “No, it’s Zoe. This is it —the moment. They say once you’ve been Queen of Comus you might as well die and go to heaven, ’cause it don’t get no better.”
    The cheers swelled to a roar.
    “And is that true?” Sam yelled above it.
    “Sure was in my case. All the rest of it’s been downhill. Forever after.”
    Sam turned back to Zoe, and memory transformed her into Kitty at that age. Kitty was a beautiful woman now, but Sam had known her then—unblemished red-gold and pink and cream. How dazzling she must have been in her diamonds and silk train. Like a dewy ripe peach about to be plucked—by Lester Lee. Gorgeous, dashing, aristocratic, crazy, weak Lester, who would blow his brains and Kitty’s dreams to hell after 364 days and nights of love.
    Sam shook her head, and the queen turned back into Zoe, who was in her own right quite heart-stoppingly splendid. When Sam had last seen her, Kitty’s niece was fully made up and coiffed but had left her house in her underwear beneath a dressing gown so as not to wrinkle The Dress.
    Here she was in full, glorious regalia. Though far too thin and pale, high spots of excitement colored her cheeks. And there was The Dress—that magnificent, low-necked gown of white satin embroidered with bows of silver sequins. Around her shoulders rose a high, plumed ruff of net and diamante. Her diamonds and pearls were perfection, including a crown set atop her own glory of dark curls. Behind her flowed twenty feet of silver satin edged with ermine.
    “Isn’t she something?” said Sam. “Too bad she has to spend the evening chatting up the king. He looks like a real toad.”
    “He is. And older than Church. But his family’s so grand, we don’t talk about that.”
    “Her Majesty. His Majesty. Ladies. Lords.” In a plummy voice the master of ceremonies tried to get everyone to settle down.
    “Is that Bert Parks?”
    “Nah. But he does have the same tan.”
    “And the same toupee.”
    Now the stage was aswirl with scores of masked lords and ladies pantomiming a scene from The Winter’s Tale. Bowing. Scraping. Mincing. Posing.
    “Isn’t it a riot?” Kitty grinned.
    “Sort of like the pageant in Mrs. Roussel’s class—third grade.”
    “Exactly. And they’re so serious. They’ve been practicing for months. It’s the high point of their year.”
    “And yours?”
    Kitty made a rude noise.
    Sam laughed. “What’s Zoe’s take on all this?”
    “Pretty sanguine. I get her out of here once in a while. To New York. Out to the Coast. She’s got a fix on it, that outside of N.O. this means jack. You tell people you’re going to be Queen of Comus and they say, Do whut? But these folks”—Kitty waved a hand—“they’d die if they suspected this wasn’t the very epicenter of the universe.”
    So