Page 49 of Fallen Angel

So she’ll leave.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Poppy stands still on the wobbly wooden platform in Agnes’s office, arms lifted just enough for Agnes to work. The freshly designed costume clings to her curves in raw silk and sequins, glittering even under the flat overhead light.

She’d known she really made it at the Blue Angel when Agnes offered to make a custom costume for her. That was a perk for only top-of-the-roster performers. It had taken Poppy a lot of time to become one of them, and she treasures every fitting. Except this particular one.

Agnes is in a terrible mood. She’s already jabbed her with a pin twice, and Poppy’s not entirely sure it’s accidental. “Are you upset with me?”

Agnes’s hands move quickly, almost violently, tugging at a stubborn seam that won’t cooperate. Her shoulders are hunched, her mouth pressed thin, a tape measure hanging around her neck; it swings against her chest like a pendulum with every movement.

“No,” Agnes says.

Poppy, not brave enough to push the issue, says nothing more. But then …

“Ow!” Poppy flinches at a pin jab under her arm. “Agnes!”

“I’m sorry.” Agnes looks up from the fabric, then takes a step away, hands dropping to her sides. She looks defeated.

“It’s fine but … I just don’t want my skin to look like I’m a human pincushion,” she says.

Agnes busies herself with a tape measure. “Moxie quit.”

Poppy must be hearing her wrong. Mallory Dale would never quit. If anything, since Bette left, she’s the only other person Poppy feels is equally devoted to the Blue Angel.

“Did you say Mallory quit?”

She steps down from the platform and sits on it. Agnes admonishes her. “You’re wrinkling, and I don’t have hours to steam it!”

Poppy jumps up. “What happened?”

“The same thing that always happens! Your generation has no dedication, no passion, and no courage. Still, you want to make art, and yet without those three things it’s impossible.”

Agnes’s landline rings. She shuffles over to her desk to answer it.

Poppy smooths her skirt, admiring the way it moves. There’s such a difference between having something custom-made and buying off the rack. If she weren’t a performer, she might never have learned that.

She can’t wait to wear it onstage.

“I told you I don’t do email. Just send a fax,” Agnes says, slamming down the receiver. Poppy has never slammed down a receiver, but it seems very satisfying.

“I can help you with email,” Poppy offers. It’s the least she can do as part of the lazy, no-passion, no-courage generation.

“Let him do it my way—hot shot,” Agnes mutters. “Big fancy lawyer. He calls first thing this morning for someone who wants to buy the club. The buzzards are circling.”

Weird. “But you’re not going to sell, right?”

Agnes shrugs. “Maybe it’s the right thing. Burlesque has lost its meaning.”

Poppy refuses to believe she means that. But if she does, Poppy has to find a way to help.

“Agnes, I don’t want you to think that way. It’s not true.”

“What do you care? You girls all leave eventually.”

Poppy’s smile fades. Agnes puts a few pins between her pursed lips and crouches by her feet to examine the hem. Her work is gentler now, more cautious.

But Poppy still feels the fury in every stitch.