Don't You Want to Be Beautiful?

Laura Ann Gilman

Getting into the chair was the easy part. Getting out of it was proving to be more difficult. Annie shifted on the high-legged chair and felt-what was her name again? Monique? Angela? Hortense?-felt the harpy from cosmetics h.e.l.l grab her chin in purple-painted talons.

"Hold your head like this, naturally."

Naturally for you, maybe, Annie sulked as the woman carefully stroked bronze powder onto eyelids already weighted down with chemical concoctions. Four layers, already, Annie counted back. And from the way that harpy had been eyeing that canister of "sealant" powder, it was likely to become five.

Mummies had fewer layers than this.

All I wanted was a new mascara!

"Think of makeup as layers of protection," the harpy said, her red-lined, red-creamed lips barely moving. She blinked her heavily coated lashes once, then reached for the sealant. "When you wear it, you feel better. Stronger. More in control. And when you feel that way, youarethat way. And with our special SPF moisturizer underneath, you never have to worry about your skin being attacked by the elements.

Defense and offense in the same wonderful package!" She beamed, as though she had said something wonderfully clever, and was waiting to be rewarded. Annie sat, silent, staring straight ahead. Even if she had wanted to say anything, she wasn't sure her jaw would move any more.

Eyes finally finished, skin tone evened, eyebrows darkened, cheeks burnished in two shades, lips penciled and blotted and creamed, Annie was presented with a mirror and the hard sell. "The no-makeup look is still important, but with just the essential application of color..." the harpy rattled on, replacing the instruments of her trade with fresh, still-boxed versions laid out on the gleaming gla.s.s-and-chrome counter top like virgins awaiting their sacrifice. Annie flexed her face carefully, wondering if the layers would crack and fall away. She wondered if her cat would recognize her.

Protection? More like armament, she thought. Bullets couldn't break through this.

"Now, you'll want the foundation, of course, and the oil-free concealer. And even if you don't take the moisturizer you'll need our nighttime rejuvinator for the under eye area to stop those wrinkles-"

"No."

The harpy went on, determined not to be stopped by such feeble protest.

"No," Annie said in a stronger voice. "No, I'm sorry, but I, um." Her resolve failed her and she jumbled the words in a shamed mumble. "NoI'msorryIhavetogoIdon'twantanythingthankyouthanksanyway."

She slipped off the stool and reached for her pocket-book, determined not to reach for her wallet. But the harpy was not in a business for the easily dissuaded, "But what about this lipcolor? Bronze apple is justperfectfor you! And don't you want our special gift? It's a silver atomizer filled with our signature scent-here! Smell!" And she reached backwards for a cardboard scent sample.

Taking advantage of the harpy's distraction, Annie ran.

As she rode up the crowded elevator, Annie could swear that she heard the sound of gnashing teeth behind her. But when she risked a glance over her shoulder, just before the first floor disappeared out of sight, the tall, lab-coated form of the Makeup Warrior had latched on to some other hapless browser.

Breathing a sigh of relief, she absently rubbed at her eyes, grimacing when she realized what she had done. Now she no doubt looked like a well made-up rac.o.o.n. She felt even more depressed. So much for a shopping trip as a way to combat the seasonal blues. Maybe new clothes would be the ticket.

Getting off on the third floor, Annie headed for the table of cashmere sweaters, the red sign advertising a pre-holiday 25% off. Despite the resurgence of neon colors, she was certain there was a wearable sweater in the pile somewhere. Unfortunately, half the known shopping world had gotten there first.

Summers of retail training took over, and she found herself refolding the sale-tossed ma.s.s of sweaters and stacking them neatly. After refusing to answer two different queries-I'm sorry, I don't work here-and not finding a single sweater in the colors she wanted, she gave up.

Hey.

"What?"

She spun around, convinced someone had called her name, but the shoppers pushed by with just the right amount of holiday-induced aggression. n.o.body stopped, n.o.body was looking at her.

You know you want it.

"What?" That was said too loudly, causing the young girl across the table to look up at her oddly. But only for a moment. There were more important things to be considered than one crazy woman shopper. Annie watched in disbelief as the girl held up a lime-green sweater and nodded in satisfaction. The girl was a redhead, the combination should have been a criminal offense.

Down here. Over here.

Annie looked down involuntarily. Her hand, resting palm-down on the table, jerked away in surprise, causing her to stumble slightly.

Just next to where her hand had been, there lay a small green-and-pink patterned box. Long, and narrow, and about the size of a lipstick.

Annie blinked, then shook her head quickly. "Someone must have left it there." That was it, someone had stopped to look at their purchases, maybe held the lipstick up to a sweater to see how they'd go together, and forgot about it. The voice, it must have been someone calling to a friend, two shoppers gotten lost in the herdlike huddle of bundled bodies. Acoustics in a store this large were always off-putting.

Turning to move away from the table-there wasn't anything here she'd want-Annie looked down at the tiled walkway and counted her footsteps as they clacked in her flat-heeled boots. Around the white-plastered corner, she let out her breath, then peeked back at the display s.p.a.ce. Nothing on the table except sweaters.

Shaking her head again, she slung her pocketbook over one shoulder and went off in search of more color-friendly prey.

Half an hour later the soothing ritual of trying clothes on had wiped the incident from her mind. Dismissed as the combination of stress, guilt, and too much cappuccino after too much wine last night at dinner, her mind was more importantly occupied with the possible social repercussions of grey leggings and a red silk tunic shot with silver threads. Too much for the office, maybe, but not for the office party...

Tossing them into the "potential" pile, Annie reached for the next item, a blue wool dress one shade lighter than her eyes. Pulling it over her head, she had a pa.s.sing concern about getting makeup on the clothing. Wasn't there a shield or something you could get from the salesclerk, to protect your face?

Stopping to check her face in the mirror, she saw that yes, indeed, she did look like a rac.o.o.n, the eye shadow had already begun to fade, and her cheekbones had been denuded.So much for that high-priced sealant, she thought with not a little vindication. If it wasn't for those high-pressure tactics, n.o.body'd ever buy anything from those cosmetics counters at all. Stronger, hah! More in control. Double hah! The only thing that would make her life a little more in control would be two extra days each week.

Stepping backwards to view the effect of the dress in the full-length mirror, Annie felt her foot crunch down on something.

Ow!

Startled, she looked down to see another small pink-and-green box flip onto its side. This one was smaller, and flatter.Like a powder compact, she thought unwillingly.

You stepped on me! The voice was accusatory, and not a little indignant. Backing away slowly, Annie kept her eye on the box on the floor. If it had moved, if the voice had spoken again, she wasn't sure what she would have done. But it wouldn't have been pretty.

"I'm losing it. I'm absolutely, positively losing it."

Biting the inside of her lower lip, she raised her right hand to chin level, then made a full body swoop to pick up the abandoned box, holding it in her open palm and raising it to eye level.

It sat there, innocuous. She didn't hear anything.

And then a pair of blue eyes opened on the edge of the box and stared directly into her own eyes.

Take me home? it asked wistfully.

Annie dropped the box, scuttling backwards until she hit the wall of the dressing room. She didn't scream, some small semirational part of her mind realizing that a nervous breakdown was not something you wanted witnesses to.

The box landed with a soft thump on the carpeting, and lay there for an endless moment.

This is a fine time for an acid flashback. Did I ever drop acid? She wasn't sure if shrooming counted.

You weren't supposed to have flashbacks from mushrooms.

Her breathing had just gotten back into something approaching normal when the box shuddered, like a horse shaking off flies, and flipped over, eyes blinking reproachfully.

You dropped me. I could have broken.

Annie opened her mouth to scream, convinced now that a nervous breakdown would be something she would welcome.

I could help you. Iwantto help you. Why won't you let me?

Ah, she don't need us. She's good enough on her own. She don't need any help. Ain't that right, beautiful?

Annie turned her head slowly, sure before she'd looked what she would see. The closed door of the dressing room hadn't stopped the compact-why would she expect it to come alone?

Mascara leaned against the far corner of the dressing room, exuding gunslinger poise like Sharon Stone on her best day. Little Ms. Tough-it-Out thinks she's got G.o.ddess genes, thinks a little dimestore color'll get her through the day. Hah.

Stop it! the compact demanded, shuddering violently. Annie blinked, pretty sure that the comment was directed, not at her, but at the other box. Leave her alone. It's chemicals like you that always make people hate us. You're gloppy and sticky and I wouldn't want you either!

Blue eyes swiveled back to look up and up and up, until Annie felt like Gulliver confronting the Lilliputians. Crouching, she went to her hands and knees, feeing silly but unable to resist.

I think it's that way the wand is shaped, all spiky and sharp, the compact confided in her. I know I'd beirritable if I were like that.

A rude noise was the mascara's only reply.

"I'm not hearing this. I'm not seeing this. I'm not doing this."

Ooo, someone's in a major state of denial... The mascara's comeback was cut short by a sc.r.a.ping noise, and both Annie and the compact swiveled to see two small boxes shove themselves under the door.

Omph. Did we miss the party? Oh good, she's not dressed yet. Dammit, where did that brush go?

Always sneaking off somewhere just when you need it...

She doesn't want us. That was the compact again, sounding close to tears. So far, it was the only one that manifested features. Annie told her herself to be grateful for small favors.

"It's not that," she said, feeling an odd urge to rea.s.sure it. "It's just that I don't wear a lot of makeup..."

We're not a lot of makeup! the two newcomer boxes chorused together. We're not much makeup at all!

They both giggled. You ditched that concealer back by the sweaters. Nice going. It always thinks it knows best, being the first one on all the time. We'll show it. Let us show you what we can do!

Weren't you two shade-heads listening? the mascara asked. She don't wantanyof us.

But, but... The two small boxes formed one eye each-brown, Annie noted-and peered at her. But we're neutral! We can go with anything, in the office or out on the town.

You sound like a commercial, the mascara sneered. And quit with the doublemint twins gig already.

The two eye shadows lapsed into hurt silence, glaring backwards at the mascara box, then rolling their shared eyes forward to look at Annie as she knelt on the floor.

The powder compact lay inches from her face, blue eyes staring up at her hopefully. She hated to do it, she really did, but enough was enough. She'd been attacked, hara.s.sed, hard-sold, importuned, insulted...

all right. That was her fault for going shopping during the Christmas season. But sherefusedto be guilted.

"I. Don't. Need. Makeup. Especially overpriced makeup. And especially especially not overpriced, chatteringpushymakeup!"

And with that, she grabbed her own clothes and jammed herself into them, picked up her pocketbook, and swung open the dressing room door, sweeping all four boxes out of the way. A m.u.f.fled jumble of complaints, punctuated by one fluent swearword floated up to her ears. Ignoring the odd look a woman standing before the three-way mirror gave her, she fled the hallway, leaving her try-ons in a desolate pile.

Not looking to the right or the left, she swung around display stands and threaded her way through the crowds, stopping only when she stepped onto the crowded down escalator. Holding on to the railing with both hands until her fingers cramped, she stared straight ahead, refusing to acknowledge the shoppers wanting to push by her. Something in her eye irritated her contact lens. "d.a.m.n flaking overpriced mascara," she muttered.

Please, ma'am? The soft voice carried from somewhere off to her left side. She jolted, her right hand reflexively going to the strap of the pocketbook slung over her left shoulder. Her glance remained fixed straight ahead at the floor rising to meet the slow tread of the escalator.

Please? The voice was definitely coming from her pocketbook. A familiar voice.

I want to go home with you. I want to make things better for you. I want everything to be perfect for you. I'm only here to help you.

A pause.

I don't have any reason to exist, except you.

Annie stood in front of the gleaming silver-and-chrome counter, not looking at anything in particular.

"Can I help you?" The saleswoman oozed charm and a caring condescension.

"I want to take this powder compact."

"Of course. An excellent choice. Just that hint of protection, to smooth out the skintone on days when you're not at your best. Will there be anything else?"

A long, strained pause...

A Night with the Girls

Barbara Hambly

"What's the problem?" Starhawk of Wrynde swung down from her horse in front of Butchers infirmary tent. Though she hadn't been in a mercenary camp in almost two years, she had a soul-deep sense of familiarity about the place, like the outhouse behind a familiar tavern: Are we back hereagain? Only the outhouse would have been quieter. Past the walls of Horran, the sun dipped toward theInnerSea , red behind the squat black towers of siege engines. In front of tents the meres sharpened swords and polished armor, repaired straps, chatted up the camp wh.o.r.es, or diced. Cook-fire smoke gritted in the eyes, profanity in the ears.

Be it ever so humble...

Butcher craned to look past Starhawk's shoulder. "Where's the Wolf?"

"And I'm so glad to see you, too," replied Starhawk. The troop physician laughed, embara.s.sed. "I'm sorry." She made a show of checking her breeches pockets and the leathern purse at her belt. "I must have left my manners in my other clothes. I'm d.a.m.n glad to see you, Hawk, but I meant it in my letter when I said we needed Sun Wolf here."

"Sun Wolfs in the mountains, chasing down some woman who's supposed to be teaching magic."