Page 63 of Under a Dancing Star

I sigh. Taking a deep breath, I open the door more fully.

Ursula looks at me for a long moment, her nose wrinkled, and her mouth a moue of distaste.

“What is it?” I fold my arms defensively across my chest.

“Why,” Ursula asks heavily, “are you wearing … that?”

“You make it sound like I’m wearing a potato sack.”

“You might as well be,” Ursula says bluntly. “That dress doesn’t fit you, Bea. Not in any way.”

“Well unfortunately it’s all I’ve got,” I reply. “But thank you for filling me with such confidence.”

“I think we can do a little better than this,” she says slowly. “Wait here.”

I sit on the bed, my posture rigid thanks to the restrictive nature of my dress. Several minutes pass before Ursula bursts back into the room, her arms full of black material.

“Are those Klaus’s clothes?” I ask as she dumps them on the bed.

She hushes me impatiently, rifling through my wardrobe for a white silk shirt. “Put these on.” She hands me a pair of Klaus’s trousers. They are black and edged down the side with inky black satin ribbon.

“Is this a tuxedo?”

“For goodness’ sake, Bea, are we going to stand around talking about it all day,” Ursula grumbles, sifting through the items on the bed. “Haven’t you ever heard of Marlene Dietrich?”

I shrug, and the movement is accompanied by a loud ripping sound, as the seam on my shoulder splits quite dramatically.

“Looks like you can’t wear that horrible dress anyway.” Ursula is gleeful. “So we might as well get on with my plan.”

I wriggle out of my dress and put on the white shirt and the trousers. Considering that Klaus and I are very different shapes the fit isn’t so bad. “They’re a little big,” I say, pulling at the loose waistband. Ursula threads a thin belt through the loops on the trousers, pulling it tight and cinching them at my waist. The effect is to make them fall, straight and wide and not a million miles away from the loose-fitting trousers that I’ve been wearing around the villa for the last few weeks.

She also hands me a black waistcoat, tucking and pinning it at the sides so that it hugs my body. Then, she stands in front of me, frowning in concentration as she ties a black bow tie around my neck.

I accept this patiently, but I’m certain that I’m going to look an absolute quiz. When Ursula finally turns me around to look in the mirror, I realize this isn’t the case – but I also wonder if I dare to wear it.

There’s nothing really improper about the suit, I suppose – it’s not that far away from how I’ve been dressing this summer. But somehow it looks a little improper on me. I look … womanly. I’m so used to folding myself in, trying to make myself look smaller at my parents’ parties. This outfit won’t let me hide. This outfit doesn’t make me small.

I certainly don’t look like the pretty, willowy figures in the fashion magazines that Mother still keeps in the house, but I like the way I feel in this suit, like a grown-up, as if the clothes I have been wearing for years were a costume, forcing me into a part I didn’t want to play. The trousers are loose, light, the silk shirt a whisper on my skin. I can move. I can breathe.

“Well,” Ursula says finally, with a dry chuckle. “That’s certainly an improvement.”

“You don’t think it’s too much?” I ask, twisting from side to side in the mirror.

“Oh, I think it’s just right,” Ursula says, circling me with a critical gleam in her eyes. “Or it will be, as long as you don’t start curling yourself over like a – a sad shrimp.”

“A sad shrimp?” I repeat, smiling.

“Yes. That is what you were like when you came here,” Ursula says firmly. “Stop doubting yourself. It’s boring. The outfit is perfect and you will wear it and Ben’s eyes will fall out of his head. You look delicious.”

“Delicious,” I repeat, feeling a tingle as the compliment registers. “All right.”

I start to pull my hair into a braid.

“Oh no you don’t!” Ursula lifts a finger. “Leave your hair down.”

“Do you think?” I ask, eyeing my curls.

“Yes, I do.” Ursula is firm as she comes to stand behind me, reaching up to untangle my hair with surprisingly gentle fingers.