The Famoux Page 9

  In my peripheral, his hair is catching light, almost golden in the glow. I’m wondering how this moment is actually real when suddenly, it’s over—the telltale sound of clacking heels makes us both turn to the kitchen entrance.

  “What are you doing here?” Norax asks, gaping. “What is this?”

  “It’s coffee,” Chapter says.

  “But you’re not supposed to …” Her gaze falls on me. “Did he coax you into a confession?”

  “We heard all about it on the drive over, Norax,” Chapter says. “Couldn’t have been a surprise even if you wanted it to be.”

  “The horrible paparazzi,” she mutters. “Tell me, did the others seem keen on meeting her?”

  His hesitation before he says something about how they’re all curious is just long enough for me to want to curl up under the table. He’s sugarcoating it, and we know that. Curiosity may as well be another word for outrage.

  “Come,” Norax tells me. “We have a few hours until our tea party with the members. It’s time to give you the tour.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Thank you for the coffee,” I tell Chapter.

  He smiles and winks. “If you ever want more, you know who to come to.”

  There are several wings within this massive hideaway mansion, and each has its own colored doors. Behind a pair of green ones, our first stop is a huge indoor gym, with a tennis court on one side and a whole slew of equipment on the other.

  “Till practices here,” Norax explains.

  I’m at first confused, because Till’s been photographed at several gyms and courts. But it occurs to me that those visits must be more performative than anything else. Here, in the mansion, is where Till can actually practice with no prying eyes.

  Next, on the second floor, is a teal door for Race’s artist’s studio, with rows upon rows of canvases, either blank or completed or half done. It’s these last ones that make me excited—no one in the world but him has probably seen these. Not yet, anyway. But somehow I’m here, getting to take my time in examining them, even daring to touch the brushstrokes.

  The only painting in his grand collection that’s hung on the wall is a surprisingly small one, barely the size of a book, of a woman at a desk. With her cascading dark hair, I wonder if Kaytee posed for it. She isn’t facing us, but rather has her attention on something she’s writing. It’s in his usual style, realistic with an abstract flair, so it’s hard to tell what it is. Perhaps one of her songs.

  We then move on to another wing, to a room the guards call the viewing room, where the walls are covered ceiling to floor in a massive screen that shows Chapter’s movies. Then, the room next door, the audio room, with perfect acoustics for listening to music. We’re served lunch here as Norax has me listen to a few of Kaytee’s albums top to bottom.

  “Her voice is just beautiful, isn’t it?” she asks.

  “It really is,” I say.

  “Yours is too.”

  I peg this as an empty compliment until she insists I try singing a few lines of the current song’s chorus. Before I know it, the maids serving us are in tears. I don’t believe them, so they record it on one of the many devices in the room and play it back for me.

  Listening to a singing voice so perfect, it doesn’t sound real, I’m forced to recall the white-hot pain I felt on my neck inside the Fissarex. I thought Zoya was only changing the shape of it, but it turns out, she was also hitting my vocal cords—changing my voice. When the singing ends and I say, “Is that enough?” I sound absolutely nothing like Emilee Laurence.

  “Unreal,” a maid whispers.

  “You’re more than a lumerpa, it seems,” says Norax. “You’re a songbird!”

  When we wander the halls next, I keep putting a hand to my throat and singing, just to hear the vibrations. Had I even tried singing when I was Emilee? I might’ve had a good voice then, too, without even knowing.

  The final room she takes me to is one with a mock runway. For Foster, she explains, to test out his new lines of clothes and see how they’d look in one of his shows.

  “All of the Famoux members have rooms special for the light they bring into this world,” she tells me. She grabs my hand. “And soon, you will too.”

  As she walks me back to the room to get ready for the tea party, it strikes me how few people in Delicatum had the opportunity to see the private workstations of the Famoux. They are perhaps the most public people in the world, but what I have seen is something special. Something reserved for just them.

  Because I’m one of them, I remember. I’m one of them.

  The preparation for what Norax has been referring to as a lovely little tea party is neither little nor lovely. It takes an army of maids to scrub every inch of me in the bathroom, cover me in lotion, and dry and style my hair to perfection. As they work, Norax explains to me how none of this is necessary, per se, thanks to the Fissarex, but, “It’s just so fun to be pampered, isn’t it?”

  Fun isn’t the word I’d use, but hate isn’t either. I’m still not used to people invading my personal space like this, so the right word might be embarrassing. Even so, their excitement is slowly but surely infectious. I find myself smiling along as the whole room cheers over yet another perfectly curled piece of golden hair, as if it wouldn’t have curled perfectly every time.

  When I emerge from the bathroom, I discover a garment bag hanging proudly by the vanity. Apparently, I’ve already become a style muse in less than a day. Norax informs me that Swanson stayed up all night making a dress for me. She unzips the bag, revealing soft pink satin.

  It is a gorgeous dress. Fitted, but not tight. Somehow just the right shade of pink. Any brighter or paler, and it wouldn’t quite work. Emilee would never wear this shade, I’m sure of it. The color would make Brandyce scoff. If I’d seen it in a store, I wouldn’t have picked it up.

  This reminds me of the plans that lulled me to sleep last night. “Norax?”

  “Yes?”

  It felt much more reasonable in my head, but much more impractical out loud. “I was wondering … Can I check up on my family?”

  “Famoux members aren’t allowed to interact with their past lives. I told you this.”

  “I know,” I say. “I don’t want to interact with them. I just … I need to know they’re okay.”

  “Were they in danger when you left?”

  “Nothing like that,” I insist. “But I want to know what they’re doing. How they’re coping.”

  “Lumerpa …”

  “It’s important to me.”

  Norax considers this. “It’s not something we’d want to get into a pattern of doing. Having Famoux guards weeding around your hometown could draw curiosity. But I could send a few undercover to look. Just once. But I can’t guarantee anything. They’d be watching them from afar—not knocking on the front door.”

  “That’s absolutely fine,” I say. “That’s more than enough.”

  She has me write the address on her clipboard, then insists we go.

  The Fissarex has made it virtually impossible for me to sweat, but I can’t stop wiping my hands on the satin as Norax takes me to a new area of the mansion for our tea party. It was a nervous habit I had as Emilee that I suppose has transferred over, even in its futility. I’m glad Swanson isn’t here to see it—she’d probably scold me for wrinkling the fabric.

  The doors in this new wing are all painted a soft, pretty orange. The color is cheerful enough, but does nothing to calm my nerves, which seem to grow bigger by the second. Maybe it would’ve been better all around to run into each member separately, like I did Chapter. The other four at once is all too much.

  “You’ve no reason to worry,” Norax reminds me. “You’re not a fan waiting for a meet and greet today. You’re on their level.”

  I don’t know if I’ll remember this, though, when I see them. I surely couldn’t when I saw Chapter.

  My stomach does a flip as she turns and opens one of the orange doors, and I half expect all the Famoux members to be standing right there.

  Not quite. The first thing I see when we step out is an older, narrow-looking man in a crisp salmon suit.

  “Father?” Norax gapes.

  “Norax,” Lennix Geddes greets. “Always a pleasure to see my … favorite daughter.”

  Norax is flustered. She looks every which way, perhaps looking for whoever brought him in. “What are you …”

  “This must be Miss Essence, who I’ve been hearing so much about?” he asks.

  “This is Emeray,” she says.

  He clicks his tongue. Lennix’s cadence is cool and even, unnervingly so. Not a single waver. “I was surprised to see her face in the papers this morning,” he says. “Very bold choice to announce a new member barely a month after your last one died on live television.”

  My stomach drops. Norax steps in front of me, putting herself between us. “Do you have a reason for being here?”

  “Are you honestly daft?” he asks. “Couldn’t you have waited a moment before plucking her out of thin air? You’re making the Famoux look like a factory, pumping out new members like they’re interchangeable! Give a few months before you—”

  “Don’t tell me how to run my institution,” Norax interjects.

  “Your institution?” Lennix scoffs. “Sure. I have a campaign I’m about to announce! I can’t have you making the—”

  “Enough,” says Norax. Since she’s in front of me, I don’t see her face, but I imagine it’s terse as she says, “If you want to have a private meeting with me, you can schedule it. You know how.”

  Before Lennix can say more, Norax leads me through another door into a dark and empty room. For a moment it’s deadly silent, and I wonder if I should say something. Then Norax exhales, perturbed, and I know to keep quiet.

  “We’re fine,” she whispers, maybe just to herself. “Right on track.”

  A control pad materializes, commanding identification to enter the adjoining room. Norax places a palm down on it, then has me do the same. I half expect it to not recognize me, but it does. With a touch, the screen illuminates brightly with my name. Larger locks from within this door unbolt, and before I can even brace myself, it opens.

  Bright light from within pours onto us. I have to squint my eyes. Adjusting to the light, objects of exorbitant pomp come into vision: the rosewood floors, the glistening gold chandelier, the ornate table with a vase of white lilies.

  Mourning flowers.

  Chatter wafts from the room to the left, and my breath catches. Despite my urge to step back through the metal door and run, Norax moves us forward.

  “We’ve been trying to reach you all morning,” one of them tells Norax. I can’t tell which one. The tone isn’t as gentle as I would’ve liked. There’s a distinct edge to it, just sharp enough to hurt somebody.

  “I was helping Emeray get ready,” Norax says.

  The tone gets even sharper, if that’s possible. “Yeah, in Bree’s bedroom?”

  I peer up, and there they are.

  In one unit like this, they are absolutely unreal. Chiseled, prodded, and perfected by way of the Fissarex. Their outfits, though different styles and colors, somehow match together impeccably. Even though their faces are riddled with worry, my mind instantly tells me to smile, idiotically, and nothing else.

  All at once I understand the term starstruck.

  This last remark about Bree appears to have come from Till Amaris. She’s the one staring the biggest daggers at Norax. When she directs her gaze over to me, it feels like I’m being set on fire.

  “There are a million rooms in this place,” she says. “Why does she have to stay in Bree’s?”

  Although I’m just about ready to disappear into thin air, Norax inhales, remaining leveled. I’m sure the conversation she’s just had with Lennix contributes to her brusqueness as she snaps, “Till, all of your rooms belonged to the members from the era before you. They’re not yours. They’re made for Famoux members.”

  “They retired!” Till says, unrelenting. “It was different!”

  Foster Farrand, who’s picking at the pastries on the table, speaks up. “You know, Till, this really doesn’t need to be the hill you die on.”

  She gasps. “How can you talk about death so flippantly? After everything that just happened?”

  His face puckers up, realizing it.

  Just then, a guard steps in from the same door we just came from, whispering something into Norax’s ear. I only catch Lennix, and she instantly pales.

  “I need to step out,” she tells us. “Start without me. Please, be civil.”

  Suddenly, such a request seems impossible.

  All eyes are on me again, now standing alone. But I get barely a moment to panic before Kaytee McKarrington strides up and hugs me tight. With her arms around me, I see words written all over her dark skin in pink marker. Lyrics for songs. This is something she does often. I recall fans at school always squinting their eyes at her paparazzi pictures, trying to read them and get a hint at her next hit single.

  “Sit with me,” she says when she pulls back.

  “Really?”

  “Of course.” Then, “Your eyes are the prettiest blue I’ve ever seen in my life!”

  Kaytee’s acceptance cuts the tension in the room, albeit just a small amount. I end up at the edge of the table, between her and the empty spot at the head where Norax should be. Directly across from my seat is Chapter, who pours tea into my cup and offers a knowing smile.

  “Cream or sugar?” he asks.

  “However you like it,” I say.

  He prepares the tea, and I wonder if he’s mentioned to anyone how we’ve already run into each other this morning. It doesn’t seem like it.

  At first, conversation is sparse and limited to comments on the food. I don’t want to so much as glance over at the other end of the table where Till is, fearful of what she’ll say next. We carry on like this for a good while until Foster takes an especially loud sip of his tea, drawing all eyes over to him.

  “Now this,” he laughs, “is hands down one of the best teatimes I’ve ever been a part of.”

  “Don’t be foolish,” Till murmurs.

  Foster rolls his eyes. “Why are you being so weird about this? You didn’t even like Bree!”

  “How dare you!”

  “I’m not saying I’m a saint! I didn’t either!” he admits. “I mean, the only one of us who actually tolerated the girl was Chapter.”

  Surprised, I look to Chapter for confirmation, but his head is down now, his blue eyes looking deep into the swirling contents of his teacup.

  “I’m just saying,” Foster continues. “Bree was going to make her film debut with Chapter, right? That was about to be a bigger hit than Riot!? Why are we pretending Till wouldn’t want her dead?”

  “Foster!” Till shouts. “Bree and I were competitive, of course. But I wouldn’t—I’d never wish—” She puts a hand to her mouth, tears springing up in her eyes.

  “Oh, great,” murmurs Race from the other side of Kaytee. He takes a sip of his tea and shakes his head, like this is their regular routine. “You’ve made Till cry. Again.”

  “I was just stating facts,” Foster says.

  “You can state them delicately,” he says. “There are no cameras around, man. Who are you trying to impress?”

  Watching them quarrel like this really does feel like the cameras are around, and I’m seeing them on my television. Granted, most of the time I couldn’t hear what they were shouting about on my screen at home, but this is hardly the first time I’ve seen Foster angered or Till crying.

  And for the topic of discussion to be me?

  Kaytee reaches out to Till, sympathetic. “Honey, we don’t think you wanted Bree dead.” She looks to Foster. “None of us does, right?”

  “Fine,” Foster says. “I just don’t get why she’s so bent out of shape about …” He looks to me, suddenly lost. “What is your name again?”

  “It’s obviously too soon!” Till exclaims. She looks to Chapter. “How are you so silent about this? Don’t you have anything to say about your girlfriend’s replacement?”

  “Till,” Chapter starts, “Bree didn’t—”

  “It’s okay if you think it’s too soon,” Till tells him. “You don’t have to be stoic about it.”

  Chapter falters, raking a hand through his hair to compose himself. Meanwhile, I’m searching my memory for any time where Bree Arch and Chapter Stones were ever rumored to be dating. But there’s nothing. Last I recalled, Chapter was never tied down to anybody.

  “I doubt Norax wanted the world to find out about this so fast,” Chapter says, voice leveled. “But they found out. There’s no use complaining about it now.”

  It occurs to me that he might want to complain. If Bree was his girlfriend, he certainly must. I feel a sudden wave of embarrassment over earlier this morning. How horrible it must have been for him to make me coffee and entertain my stories, when all the while …

  I finally meet his gaze, but it’s unreadable. He looks down at his cup.

  “She obviously joined this group for a reason,” Foster says. “Same reason as us. To get away from the bad stuff. Too early or not, cut her some slack, Till.”

  Till is still crying. I don’t know what I’ve done to provoke this. Beside me, Kaytee lowers her voice to address only her, but she’s no match for my years of listening in on other people’s conversations. “I know you feel guilty, but it’s over. We know it’s over. The least we can do is welcome Emeray in, right?”

  Till wipes her tears and manages a nod. Without another word she rises and exits the room. Teatime is over. This is how my grand meeting with the Famoux has gone.

  I can’t help but wonder how much better it could’ve been if it had happened a month or so from now, like Lennix mentioned before we entered.

  On the way out of the room, I want to catch up with Chapter, maybe say something about Bree, but Kaytee wraps her arm around me and pulls me away. “Hey. Don’t worry too much about Till, okay? She’s competitive. And you’re just so beautiful.”

  Before I can utter a thank-you, Foster Farrand is on my other side. “She’s right. You have the best face I’ve ever seen,” he decides. “I want to do a photoshoot with you.”