Sequins, Secrets, and Silver Linings by Sophia Bennett Read Free Book Online

the lack of anything on the walls. Coming from a home that is practically an art gallery, I find this physically painful. There are just two photographs in little wooden frames. One is of a tall, elegant man who looks like the male version of Florence, with a woman and a little girl—Crow’s family, I assume. The other is a school picture of Crow, looking sullen and watchful and under-accessorized.
    Florence explains how grateful she is to us for providing some company for her niece. She doesn’t seem to be worried about the sweatshop thing at all.
    “I have two jobs. I work every day, unless I’m sick. I’m hardly ever here to talk to Elizabeth. She’s a hard worker, too. Every day she’s always making something. She has Yvette”—the woman “from Dior”—”but she’san old, old lady. Crow needs people her own age. She needs children.”
    We smile respectfully. Fourteen-year-olds love being categorized as children. Yes indeedy. Totally with the program.
    Edie picks up the photograph of the man, the woman, and the little girl.
    “Your brother?” she asks.
    “Yes. James. He’s a teacher. A very responsible man. He’s passionate about England and anything English, isn’t he, Elizabeth?”
    Crow nods. I’m struggling with the Elizabeth–Crow thing. It’s a strange nickname and not linked to her real name at all. Edie says she’s asked and Crow won’t talk about it. Clams up like Harrison Ford in an interview (Edie didn’t say that, of course, but that’s the impression I get). Odd.
    “His little girl is Victoria,” Florence continues. “English queens, you see? He’s so proud that Elizabeth is here, getting a proper English education.”
    I spot Edie flinch. She’s talked to Crow about this and she knows the education is not exactly perfect when there are thirty of you in the class and you can’t read ninety percent of what the teacher writes or anything in your textbook. Crow mostly just sits at her desk anddoodles on her notebooks, praying she won’t be asked a question. She likes art, though.
    “Will James come to England, too?” Edie asks.
    “Oh no. He teaches in a camp for displaced people. He can’t leave them. And Grace can’t leave him, and little Victoria can’t leave Grace.”
    “Why …?” I don’t know how to put it exactly, without being rude. I struggle. I just don’t understand how it could possibly be better for Crow to be in this tiny flat, with an aunt who’s never there, instead of at home, with her family. It seems such an important question it’s almost too obvious to ask. And yet I can’t find the words to phrase it.
    Edie notices me struggling and puts a hand on my arm. For once, she gives me the look I’ve so often had to give her: the “don’t go there” look. I’m still desperate to find out more, but when I give “the look” to Edie, I seriously mean “shut up,” so I take a dose of my own medicine and ask instead about how Crow’s getting on with all her new materials.
    This is obviously the right decision. Crow leaps up delightedly and takes me into her room to show me. We leave Edie and Florence to talk.
    I don’t know what to take in first. There’s the size of the room—tiny; the furniture—a few bits of oldoffice stuff, including a filing cabinet; the walls—covered in fabulous illustrations of dancing girls, pictures by Victoria, and torn-out pages from magazines; and the sculpture skirts and dresses—everywhere.
    Crow must be obsessed. They’re piled several layers deep. Paper patterns. Practice versions in cheap cotton. Violent-colored nylon examples and now delicate silk versions that look like melted works of art. They’re hanging from the curtain rod. Hanging from the handles of the filing cabinet. Draped on the bed. Folded on and under the tiny desk, where the only object I can recognize between the piles is an old, black, hand-operated Singer sewing machine.
    “How long have you been making these?” I ask.
    “Two