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Lady Aurora, Bella thinks, is an undeniable beauty.
If the world is Bella’s oyster, then she must be its shining pearl.
The music swings along to the beat of Bella’s heart; on stage, Lady Aurora trails a slender finger up her microphone, and a saccharine melody tumbles from her painted lips and into the perfumed air with sweet clarity — her song pulses in Bella’s blood. Her hips sway, and colourful light catches onto the holographic satin of her dress and slides off as easily. Under the spotlights, she is a waterfall of rainbow, cascading down into platinum gold fur over the golden stage.
Yes — Lady Aurora, Bella thinks, is undeniably intoxicating. Then her sweet vocals rise, and Bella stops thinking at all.
Her voice! Her presence!
She’s a glamorous performer; she’s seductive. She’s glossy and glittering, bathed in the eternal movement of scattering light and haloed by the sparkles of diamonds and pearls. A true Metropolitan star, she moves on stage like an angel formed from the crystal condensation of the most potent drug, sweeter and more alluring than the purest belladonna desire.
Bella — Bella has always been an addict.
Her pupils dilate; she presses a hand to her chest, and the hard diamond of her jewelry digs into her flesh. She can feel her heart pounding, her hand trembling — she feels wonderfully alive.
“Phonograph,” she murmurs to her maid, not taking her eyes off the stage, “I must meet her.”
Bella does not wait to listen to her maid’s response; Phonograph can take care of matters, as she must. Bella’s hands clasp the cold gold railing of the loge, and she leans forward. Closer, as close as she can be to the city’s darling.
Below, Lady Aurora’s song rises, her arms lifting into the air, and for a moment she feels close enough to touch.
Enchanted would be too pure of a word to describe Bella. There is something almost raw in her desire, a glittering cocktail of emotion brewing in her chest, violent enough to bubble. Lady Aurora looks like the most dazzling poison, and she looks like she would taste sweet on Bella’s lips.
Bella’s already drunk — drunk on her music and drunk on her charisma. God, she could drown in her. The air shimmers where the singer touches, the world sucked into her orbit and spiraled into the depths of glitter and haze and the infatuating drug that is Lady Aurora.
But Bella — Bella has always been an addict.
“Madame Bella!” Phonograph cries, but Bella does not slow her steps.
“Come, Phonograph!”
“We cannot!”
“Phonograph!” Bella stops, turns. Her heels clack loudly against the glittering surface of the ground. “I will see her.”
“Lady Aurora is the star of Metropolis. There is no such way to force yourself into her quarters! Think of your dignity, Bella!”
“You must forget — I am the rose of the theatre scene. She will not turn me down; have some faith. Unless!”
“Unless?”
“Unless you have ulterior motives, my little maid,” Bella says, and Phonograph sputters. “No? Then we shall make haste. The adoration, the dazzle, you must keep your eyes wide.”
Bella spins forward, and the pink fur of her trail drags against the floor with the movement. “Metropolis! What a dream.”
A dream! A dream it is — the sort that has one diving into headfirst with eyes hazy but bright, the sort that envelops one into the powder and feathers of the stage, the sort that sends one swinging into the blinding light. A dream that Bella could slumber in forever, cocooned in perfume under the eternal glitz of electronic stars. Bella throws open the double doors, and steps into the carpeted hallways to the dressing rooms.
“Entry is not allowed!” someone says, but she brushes it off with a flick of her hand.
“I’m looking for the Lady Aurora,” she calls, and cocks her head in a way that has her diamond earrings glinting in the light.
“Entry is not allowed!” With thundering footsteps, dark figures swarm her and her maid. Bella casts her gaze to the side, and her eyes narrow in disdain at the mechanical guards. She never liked robots; always too cold, too undiscerning. Even Jingle Bells, the one man that he is, would be able to tell city diamonds from commoner coal.
“Not even a proper entourage — But Metropolis is all about technology these days, isn’t it? Phonograph.”
“Madame Bella!” her maid cries, wringing her hands. She looks awfully agitated, but Phonograph has always been rather expressive.
“Madame Bella,” a third voice says, and Bella’s head lifts.
“Lady Aurora,” she cries out, and the singer only smiles. Gorgeous! She is gorgeous even not under the flattering spotlights and glittering confetti of the stage, and her eyes pierce into Bella’s clear and unreadable.
“I hope you have not been waiting long — come, come! The maid must wait outside.”
“Bella!” Phonograph gasps, but Bella hushes her.
“You wait, Phonograph. I will be back.”
Lady Aurora turns slightly, her eyes still on Bella’s, and with the crook of a finger and a mysterious smile on her purple lips she beckons her forward. Her boa pools over the floor, a river of shimmering gold silk and white fur draped across her lean arms, and shifts hypnotisingly with her every movement.
Bella — Bella follows, moth to burning flame, butterfly to deadly nightshade.
“We must not keep the belladonna waiting,” Lady Aurora says, and extends a bejeweled hand.
“Flatterer,” Bella says, and rests her palm over the lady’s.
Lady Aurora leads her forward, and Bella can almost taste her fragrance on her tongue.
She brings her to her dressing room — scandalous! But Bella does not mind.
“I did not receive word of your coming. I am glad you sought me out first,” Lady Aurora tells her. She slips off her boa; it drops to the ground, and her bare arms shine golden in the warm lights. “How have you found Metropolis? Have a seat.”
“Exhilarating… Addicting!” Bella gracefully collapses into a plush chair, and Lady Aurora takes a seat across from her. “My eyes are open, I believe, and they are as clear as they ever will be.”
“I am glad, Madame Bella,” she says, and the sound of her name on her lips sends a thrill up Bella’s spine. “You must stay a while longer — there are such wonderful sights to see.”
Bella laughs. “Dark mist and neon lights, what a sight! Lady Aurora, I agree that I must stay longer, but not for the reasons you speak of.”
Lady Aurora snaps open her fan, but the golden plates cannot hide the way her eyes curve up. “You are seeking something from me.”
I am seeking you, my sweet poison, Bella thinks, but she does not voice it out loud.
“Invite me.”
“Awfully presumptuous,” the singer says, but Bella has always been spoiled.
“My reality, Lady Aurora,” she says, waving a hand in the air, “Is that I am a busy woman. Tell me there is something worth waiting for in this city.” Tell me it is you.
“I’ll mail you the three tickets,” Lady Aurora says, and tilts her head. “You must enjoy the best seats in my auditorium.”
“Three?”
“Tomorrow, and the two days after.” She pauses. “Or six, for your maid to come with?”
“Do you believe I will be needing her company?”
Lady Aurora snaps her fan shut, places it on the dressing table. Her smile is almost predatory. “No.”
“No?”
“No. You will not be able to take your eyes off me.”
“Is that a promise, Lady Aurora?”
“Three days,” she says. “Performances last a few hours — I am curious to see what you will do in the meantime.”
Bella stands; so does the other woman. “Time is precious.”
“It is. I hope you will savour every second — before the stars go out.” Lady Aurora steps closer, dips her head. Her hair glows like golden straw, and she smells like gold coins and perfume.
Bella does not savour. She devours — until the lights blind her eyes, until she is too intoxicated to stand, until she crashes in a crumple of poison-stained diamond and fur. She has always craved that violent rush, that hard fall. But to savour is for death to spiral into something slow and dizzying, for toxin to be tasted on her teeth until her flesh dissolves with her last breath.
(But wouldn’t it be delicious? Bella — Bella has always been an addict.)
“Before the flowers wither,” she says, and lifts her hands. Her fingertips skim the cold surface of Lady Aurora’s waist where her gown reveals skin.
In a swoop, Lady Aurora kisses her — her lipstick is bitter on the tongue, her mouth cold and her fragrance sharp and deadly. But Bella could swear it tastes sweet.
She does not expect her life to last long in the poison she has steeped herself in. If her time runs out tomorrow, then today she worships Lady Aurora’s hourglass.
Phonograph does not take the news kindly.
“Dangerous!”
“It is certainly not, my dear. They are the best seats. Metropolis’ security is tight.”
“Can you trust that?” Phonograph asks, cocking her hip almost petulantly.
Bella throws her hands up. “Lady Aurora is exactly as she seems!”
“And what does she seem like!”
A drug. A poison. “A kind woman. A star,” Bella says, and it is not fully a lie.
“Would a kind woman separate a woman from her maid?”
A kind woman would separate my wicked soul from my poisoned flesh. A kind woman would let me drown in her toxin. “A kind woman would offer extra tickets — I shall have you know that I turned her down.”
“Bella!” Phonograph gasps. “You trust too easily.”
And Bella whirls around, and for a moment she feels rage. “I am not naive, Phonograph. I understand what I am walking into!”
“I don’t! So explain, madame, I beg of you.” Phonograph’s lip trembles, and her voice comes out shaky. Bella cannot help but falter in the cracked face of her innocent youth, and she cannot help but feel regret — if not for herself, then for her maid.
“Actors cannot — simply exist. We are perfect fantasies. Our steps must command the music, and our eyes must command the light! I must see Lady Aurora. I must learn. I must powder my face with the remnants of her stardust, even if my skin will burn! It will be wondrous!”
”You are already spectacular on stage!”
“It is a shimmering mirage, Phonograph. A reflection of the liquid I drip into my eyes! Bella donna, bella donna, me or the flower!” Bella cries, and swings her arm wildly. Pain jolts up her knuckles, and with a great crash a flower vase comes shattering onto the floor. Phonograph flinches away — for a moment, there is silence.
“Bella —” Phonograph starts, but she cuts her off quickly.
“Call the hotel staff to clean it up.”
“Bella!”
”Phonograph!” Bella’s breathing is sharp and laboured. “When I see her, my eyes turn darker and brighter than anything the quivering flower can induce. My heart glows and it is genuine and pure in its essence. I need her — she is better than any drug I can use!”
“Then go!” Phonograph rips off her beanie, throws it to the floor amongst the shards and water. “Go, submit to your vices! She will be the death of you!”
And Bella does not say that she was already born to die.
“If she can bring me to heaven, then I will allow her to! She cannot drag me to hell — I have spiraled much lower than that!”
“You are cruel,” Phonograph whispers, as Bella turns on her heel.
Cruel — Yes, Bella might be cruel.
But before that, Bella — Bella has always been an addict.