The End of the World
Title: The End of the World
Pairing: Andy/Miranda
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Lauren Weisberger and Fox.
Rating: R
Author's Note: This originally began when I told my girlfriend that I would write her some good, non stereotypical steampunk. It turned out to be not steampunk at all and simply period. I had a grand time writing it. All you really need to know is that in 1919 a guy named Albert Porta predicted the world would end on December 17th because six planets would align causing a magnetic force that would make the sun explode. Obviously, that didn't happen.
Thanks for reading!
Isaiah Newton was cold. His coat, which had been recently soaked with the rest of him in the river, clung to his back and shoulders, sending chills into his core. He attempted to flip up his collar around his neck but only succeeded in flapping it wetly against his skin. His packet of cigarettes was limp in his fingers. He dropped it on the pavement and stepped on the box, crushing it. Somewhere to his left he heard a splash followed by a scream. He looked. The splash had been someone jumping off the bridge into the river he had just hauled himself out of, but the jumper had not screamed. A woman in a long, white fur coat was leaning half off the railing, one hand pointing at the water, the other over her mouth. Newton waited.
The person in the water, Isaiah could see it was also a woman, flapped her arms helplessly at the woman still pointing down at her. Her large dress had buoyed out and was mostly keeping her afloat. Newton looked around at the other people on the bridge. Another woman in the jumper’s party was gesturing at him. He sighed. There was a man in their party as well, smoking a cigarette in a short, black holder and staring up the river in the other direction. Newton ground his waterlogged package further under his foot.
“Isn’t someone going to help her?”
Two boys had climbed up on one of the saints’ statues. Neither of them were dressed for the temperature and they clung to the statue with bare hands and looked excitedly down into the water.
“I suppose she wanted to jump,” said the second. Newton could tell they were local by their Czech dialect which was so thick and jargon-filled he almost couldn’t make it out.
His companion opened his mouth to respond when a man ran past them, pulled off his coat and jumped into the river. At least he had had the good sense to take his coat off, thought Newton. The boys laughed and jumped out of the flickering light cast by the gas lamp above.
“Serves her right,” he heard one of them cackle from the darkness.
Newton shivered and tried again to pull his coat closer around him. He probably should have jumped in, he thought as he walked off the bridge towards Old Town. The world was ending soon anyway.
***
Miranda Priestly expected to be the only American at the French Ambassador’s reception at Krinsky Palace or Palác Krinskych as her Czech driver had called it. She did not have to attend, it was a merely a formality, since she was in town. Most of the truly important people were in Paris for the holidays. She had heard a silly rumor from her staff that people had been going under ground in fear of those absurd reports that the sun would explode.
Her table was close enough to the Ambassador’s table that she did not feel shunned or unappreciated, but far enough away that she didn’t feel the need to actually speak to him. She was seated next to an aging duchess who only spoke Czech.
“Lord Andrew Sackville,” was announced and Miranda noticed no one turned their heads. Just like the gas lights on the street corners, the announcer’s presence showed just how Prague was behind the times. In Paris, only the state dinners cared enough to know everyone who arrived.
She was not at all surprised to see Lord Sackville weave between the circular tables and delicate, wicker chairs to dip gracefully into the seat next to her.
“Evening all,” he said in an anonymously foreign accent that could have been English or French or even German, but certainly not American. Miranda thought it was lazy.
“Does Mrs. Nicolson know you’ve borrowed her name?” she said quietly so that the already-nodding duchess could not hear them. Miranda could remember a time when Lord Andrew had been so struck by the presence of duchesses that he became quite boring to be around. Now he scarcely noticed them and turned to Miranda as if he had only just became aware of her presence and was delighted, or at least amused, she was there. Miranda became even more irritated.
“I use it all the time,” Lord Andrew said, settling into a London accent that was too lower-class for their current environment. “I think she’s a bit distracted by Mrs. Trefusis at the moment.”
Miranda had read the latest reports in the papers before she had left Paris. “Violet has always had a flair for dramatics.”
“I forgot you know her,” Lord Andrew said. “What’s Vita like? She sounds marvelous in the papers.”
“It’s tacky to comment on someone based on the papers,” Miranda said.
“You should talk. Aren’t you starting a new magazine?”
Miranda ignored him. The banquet hall was beginning to fill, but no one seemed to be interested in their conversation. Even so, Miranda did not tell Lord Andrew that she was probably just Mrs. Nicolson’s type, husband or not. She pursed her lips and Lord Andrew looked away.
After a moment, dinner was announced and the room was quickly saturated with carefully dressed servers carrying bowls of watery soup and bottles of cheap champagne. Besides the aging duchess, who awoke with the start of the meal, the only other people at their table were an American business man and his partner. Their names had been announced, but Miranda had not been listening.
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” Lord Andrew said. Miranda knew he was lying. “Are you here on business or pleasure?”
The two men across the table would probably notice if she ignored him, so she said, “I’m looking at illustrators.”
“Ah,” Lord Andrew grinned. “I heard rumors that Chanel isn’t going in on your little Paris Runway venture. Is that true?”
“You know it’s true,” Miranda snapped. “The announcement was made a week ago.” Lord Andrew nudged her foot under the table in what was most likely meant to be a sympathetic gesture. Miranda crossed her legs.
“My wife loves Runway,” one of the business men said. “Do you work for them?”
“Mmm.” She tightened her lips at him. “Lord Sackville did too, briefly. Didn’t you, Andrew.”
“It was a long time ago.”
It had only been six months ago, but Miranda let Lord Andrew get away with the exaggeration.
“This must be a nice little reunion, then,” the business man said. Miranda noticed his associate said very little.
“Quite,” she said. She signaled a waiter to remove her untouched soup.
“I’m here for fun,” Lord Andrew announced. Miranda could tell he was trying to salvage the mood and didn’t want to help. “I heard that a few of Hulme’s poems have turned up here and I thought it’d be interesting to look into.”
The Americans had never heard of Hulme.
“Who told you that?” Miranda asked.
“Ms. Beach.”
“How is her little shop?”
“Fine,” Lord Andrew said. “Business is booming.”
Miranda had a vested interest in Ms. Beach’s little shop and was about to inquire further when the American said, “I’ve heard the world is going to end tomorrow.”
“The world is not ending tomorrow,” Miranda said sharply. Next to her the duchess jumped and dropped her fork into the silent business man’s lap. His hand shook as he handed it back to her.
“So what do you do?” Lord Andrew asked the Americans.
During the main course, a young Czech man appeared and invited the duchess to his table. She glanced snidely back over her shoulder as she went. Miranda watched Lord Andrew get more and more impassioned about the economic effects of American capitalism until the talkative business man, whose name was Drew, said, “For a Brit, you have very strong opinions on the subject.”
Lord Andrew paused for a moment. He had clearly forgotten that, for the evening, he was not American. Miranda stared at the strawberry tart that had just been placed in front of her. Strawberries were out of season.
“Well, imperialism’s a load of rubbish as well,” he burst out. Miranda uncrossed her legs and touched Lord Andrew’s ankle gently with her toe. He sighed quickly and stabbed his tart.
“Are you saying you’re a communist?” the quiet business man said. His voice was cold and unpleasant. Miranda hoped he wouldn’t speak much more.
“I’m sure he didn’t mean that, Arthur,” the first business man said.
“It is always hard to tell exactly what Andrew means, Mr. Drew,” Miranda said.
“I always mean what I say,” Lord Andrew said. He smiled derisively. “Wilde always said political parties are never the place to talk politics, but I am not a communist.”
The Americans had never heard of Wilde either.
“Thank you for sparing us another of your sermons on the common man,” Miranda said at Lord Andrew. “Since I’m sure that was coming.”
“Oh, Mrs. Priestly - ”
“It was absolutely charming meeting you gentlemen,” she went on. They both jumped up as she rose. “But I’m afraid I must forgo coffee.” She did not say good bye.
Her host, who she had not seen all evening, met her in the entrance hall to thank her for attending his little party. She told him the news from Paris until he asked one too many questions about Runway and Coco Chanel and she said good night.
Lord Andrew was waiting in the back of her car. He shifted to accommodate her fur coat.
“I don’t recall offering you a lift,” she said.
“You meant to,” Andrea said, dropping the accent entirely.
“I suppose I don’t have much of a choice now.” Her irritation returned. She raised her voice, “Why aren’t we moving? Can you actually drive?”
The driver turned in his seat. “Where to?” he said in thickly accented French.
“Hotel,” Miranda said in English. She waited a full thirty seconds to repeat it in French. The car chugged to life and began to move down the street.
“You should be nicer to him,” Andrea said.
“You shouldn’t tell me how to handle my staff,” Miranda said. “You’ve behaved badly tonight. What were you thinking asking about Chanel like that?” She felt relieved and tense that her annoyance had made her snap.
The mask of roguish gallantry that Andrea had been holding all evening slipped. The vindictive, frustrated piece of Miranda was pleased to see it fall.
“I was curious,” Andrea said. “I’ve been hearing all sorts of things. I was worried.”
“About what?”
“About you.” Andrea tried to take her hand, but Miranda moved away. “I heard she wanted your job.”
Miranda snorted sharply and the cold air stung her nose. “Ms. Chanel would like me to work for her, not the other way around.”
“Oh,” Andrea said. “Are you?”
“And leave a job that pays more and has more influence? Don’t be stupid.” Even in the shadows of the car, she could see Andrea’s brow furrow. There was more, Miranda knew, and she wished Andrea wouldn’t ask.
“I’ve also heard she wants you in her bed.”
“Don’t be absurd,” Miranda hissed angrily. The fact that Andrea felt the need to question the rumors upset her more than their existence.
“She’s very beautiful,” Andrea said.
“She looks like a cat,” Miranda said, unfairly, she knew. “Jealousy isn’t becoming, Andrea.”
Andrea turned away to look out the window. “Neither is lying.”
Miranda let herself slump back against the seat and looked out her own window. She didn’t know the streets well enough to tell if they were close to the hotel. She wouldn’t be surprised if her driver took the long way after how she’d treated him, but she wouldn’t pay him if he did. There had been one time with Chanel, at a fashion event in Brighton just after her husband had left her. But it had been so long ago that Andrea was probably still in a one room high school somewhere in Ohio. She knew she should tell Andrea this, that it would solve everything, but she was still so irritated that the explanation stuck in her chest.
“The streets are empty,” Andrea said. Her voice was muffled and Miranda couldn’t tell her emotion. “Everyone must be inside for the end of the world.”
Miranda rolled her eyes. The car turned a corner and she saw the lights of the hotel.
“Why are you even here?”
“I heard you would be,” Andrea said.
The car pulled up to the curb and the doorman had the door open as soon as it stopped. “Are you coming up?” Miranda asked Lord Andrew.
“I don’t have anywhere else planned.”
That was unwise, Miranda thought, but didn’t say, because it depressed her to plan for fights. She got out and waited. She turned back; Andrea was framed in the black square of the door, her dark hair disappearing in the shadow and only her pale skin was lit by the bright electric lights from the hotel’s marquee.
“Andrea?”
They were silent up the stairs and into the room. Miranda looked about and wondered again if Emily had really put her best effort into hotel selections. She let Andrea take her coat and hang it in the closet.
“Where are your things?” Miranda asked.
“At the train station.” Andrea sat gingerly on the chair by the window and tugged on her tie. “They can stay there. I didn’t bring anything for you this time.”
“That’s alright,” Miranda said. “I don’t have anything for you either.” She never had any gifts for Andrea, just things other people had given her and she didn’t want.
“I missed you,” Andrea said.
“It’s been a long time,” Miranda said. It always felt strange to be alone with Andrea after they hadn’t seen each other for months. The last time they were alone had been late at night in a hotel in London. They had not talked at all. She knew she should ask about Andrea’s life and the places she had been, but instead she almost wanted Andrea to reintroduce herself to account for the dissonance of being so used to someone who seemed so foreign.
“It’s sounds like you’ve been busy,” Andrea said. She tugged on her tie again and Miranda realized she wouldn’t get undressed until Miranda did. In the car that would have been irritating, but it touched her to see Andrea fiddling with her cufflinks.
“You can read that in the papers.” She crossed to the small vanity by the wash basin and removed her necklace and earrings. “Come here.”
She pulled on both sides of Andrea’s bowtie and it came apart in her hands. Andrea leaned forward and kissed her cheek gently and softly, the way she had the very first time that Miranda could never forget. The action caused a feeling of tenderness and affection that was so startling Miranda shut her eyes to stave it off.
“You looked very beautiful tonight,” Andrea said against her skin.
“Thank you,” Miranda said, coming back to herself. She enjoyed that Andrea’s compliments never felt dutiful. “You looked very smart.” She ran her hand through Andrea’s hair, trying to slide the wig off, but it didn’t come. “Your hair - ” She stepped back to look.
“I cut it,” Andrea said. “It was easier that way. One less thing to carry with me and worry about. Do you hate it?” She touched her bangs that had fallen forward on her forehead and looked up at Miranda bashfully through her eyelashes.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Miranda said. “You don’t care that much what I think.”
“I suppose not,” Andrea said. “Not now.” Miranda knew she still cared, regardless of what both of them pretended, but it lacked the animosity and anxiety that had been there when they first met. “I’m sorry, though, I know you liked my hair.”
“It will grow back,” Miranda said. “For now, this suits you.”
“Thanks,” Andrea said. She touched Miranda’s chin and stared at her. Miranda held her breath, feeling exposed and hidden in the way Andrea’s brown eyes moved up and down over her features. She wondered what Andrea saw when she looked at her this, the way she did every time they met now. Miranda knew it had something to do with her work and the way it affected her, but she never asked and Andrea rarely spoke of it.
When she couldn’t bear the silence, Miranda kissed her. It was difficult to tell if Andrea had been expecting it; she whimpered and rocked back on her heels giving Miranda, who gripped her shoulders, the swooping feeling in her stomach of falling for a second before Andrea’s hands on her hips steadied her.
“It’s alright,” Andrea said quietly.
Miranda kissed her hard to keep her from saying more. She tasted like wine and the stale tart from dinner and the Andrea saltiness that was always there, blue on her tongue. Miranda kissed away from her mouth, across her jaw line to avoid being overwhelmed by the taste she hadn’t realized she’d missed.
“You smell perfect,” Andrea said. Miranda remembered just how vocal Andrea could be when she really wanted silence and bit hard on the muscle at the base of her neck, making Andrea hiss. It seemed to startle her into motion, her arms came up around Miranda’s waist and her head fell forward to nuzzle her nose into the hair at Miranda’s temple. Andrea kissed her temple and her throat, making her shiver, and sighed heavily.
“I’ve missed you,” she murmured, almost reverently.
Miranda, attempting to quell another wave of tenderness, said, “Oh get on with it”
Andrea jerked her head up and grinned. Miranda could see the same gleeful excitement that had been in Lord Andrew’s eyes during dinner, but instead of irritating her, it made the muscles in her abdomen lurch and contract in an excruciatingly pleasant manner.
And then it had been like they’d never been apart. Their mouths crashed together, smearing Miranda’s lipstick so that she could taste it on Andrea, whose hands slid down her back and up her front, brushing against her breasts, making her moan. She pushed off Andrea’s jacket and clumsily undid the buttons to her waist coat and shirt front. Underneath she found the layers of white strips, usually torn from old bed sheets, that held down Andrea’s breasts. She huffed impatiently and pulled at the edges, trying to find end of a strip. This made Andrea chuckle softly. She kissed Miranda again and stepped back to reach where the outermost piece of fabric had been tucked under her arm. When Miranda took it and tugged, she even spun obligingly so that Miranda could pull the fabric away. As soon as it all fluttered to the floor, she bent forward to kiss away the angry red lines that had been left in Andrea’s skin. Andrea moaned. Her hands shook on Miranda’s shoulders and wove through her hair.
She pressed open-mouthed kisses down Andrea’s torso until she felt something rough against her lips. They both froze. Andrea tried to back away but Miranda held on to her hips. There was a four-inch line of stitches down her side that had scabbed over. The edges were already showing shiny pink scar tissue.
“What - ”
“I had an accident,” Andrea said. She laughed and it did not sound like her. “It’s fine.”
Miranda straightened.
“Miranda - ”
She cupped Andrea’s face unsure if she felt fear or fury. “Tell me.”
Andrea’s eyes drifted away and began to cloud over. The anger that had filled Miranda a moment before was replaced anxious apprehension. She did not know what would happen. She did not know if Andrea would tell her how she had been injured, or if she wanted to know, or how she would react to that retelling. They had never talked about the life Andrea led while she was traveling. Miranda knew it was dangerous, but Andrea liked her work. Now, Miranda could tell, she was somewhere else, somewhere Miranda had never been.
“Andrea?”
She jolted and looked desperately at Miranda. She pulled Miranda’s hands down and kissed her hard, pushing them back against the vanity. The mirror rattled. Andrea plucked at the silk straps over Miranda’s shoulders.
“I want to see you,” she said sounding small and frightened. Miranda hesitated. She had spent time with other people to avoid feeling things before. Even though she understood what Andrea was doing, part of her was still resentful and wanted to stop, just to call Andrea on her act. But she understood it and reached behind her shoulder for the zipper to her dress. The straps fell down her shoulders and Andrea kissed down her chest and bit down lightly on her nipple. Miranda groaned.
“Bed?” Andrea asked.
“Yes.” She pushed her dress to the floor and shivered as cold air hit her legs
Andrea made a great show of carefully unhooking her stockings from her garter belt and kissing the creases of her hips and up her torso to her breasts, making her writhe. Her underthings fell off the bed onto the floor. She shifted and opened her legs to accommodate Andrea’s hand.
“You’re willing,” Andrea said.
Andrea’s thumb traced lightly over her clit making Miranda’s whole body jerk up off the bed. “You like getting me like this.”
“I do.” Andrea smiled. “Can I?”
“Yes, of course. Stupid question.” Miranda pushed her hips forward. Her mouth fell open as Andrea pushed two fingers inside her. “Oh god. Please.”
Andrea shifted so that she hovered over Miranda, all her weight on her free arm and dipped her head to kiss Miranda’s cheek. “Yes, Miranda,” she said lightly.
“Cruel,” Miranda huffed, trying to find more friction against Andrea’s hand.
“Oh no.” Andrea nuzzled her nose into the hair at Miranda’s temple and increased the speed of her hand. Miranda began to gasp, feeling the heat build in her stomach. “Never that,” Andrea whispered. “I’ll be whatever you want.”
“You know what I want.” She felt Andrea’s hand shift and her thumb began to rub over her clit. “Yes, that. Please.” She began to babble and clamped her mouth shut. She shut her eyes and came with a loud moan.
When Miranda stopped shaking, Andrea moved her hand away and carefully lay down next to her. She kissed Miranda’s breast and bit the nipple playfully. Miranda clapped her hand to her mouth to block her squeak of surprise. This made Andrea laugh. She touched Miranda’s cheek. Her hand was sticky and Miranda could smell herself.
“I don’t care if you - ”
“I’m not,” Miranda said. Andrea’s hand fell away. She told Andrea about the one time she and Chanel had been together in the past and was thankful when Andrea did not question why she hadn’t said something before.
Miranda stretched. She would get cold soon if they didn’t go again. “You’re wearing too many clothes.”
“I love you,” Andrea said. “You do know that, don’t you?”
With her hair flopping forward over her eyes, Andrea looked young and boyish. Miranda pushed it back and smiled. She never would have listened to such an admission from the Andrea who had started work with her, but the Andrea with stitches down her side and men’s clothes was a different person and Miranda did not doubt her surety.
“I know,” she said.
“The end of the world and all,” Andrea said. “I wanted to make sure.”
“You don’t really believe all that rubbish, do you?” Miranda asked.
“No,” Andrea said. “I talked with some scientists in Munich and they say this sort of thing has happened before. There’s no magnetic current. At least nothing that we can feel.”
“The fuss is ridiculous,” Miranda said. “One of my secretaries jumped off a bridge today.”
“Oh god. Was she alright?”
“Someone pulled her out.”
“Miranda - ”
“I told everyone the world would not be ending and they should act accordingly. Any behavior to the contrary would not be tolerated.” She could tell Andrea wanted to say more, but instead she rested her head back on Miranda’s collarbone and began stroking her side gently. Miranda hummed in contentment and Andrea slid closer.
“Are you cold?”
“No,” Andrea said. She pressed a kiss to Miranda’s neck. “I just like the feel of you.”
Miranda nodded although she knew Andrea could not see her. She wondered when they would be in the same place again.
“It’s strange how quiet it is,” Andrea said. “I guess people are more ready to accept an apocalypse after the war.”
Andrea spoke of the war as if she had been there, when in reality she had not left America until a week after the armistice. Miranda had been in London for most of it, sent over to help start the British Runway on the philosophy that although no one had any money to buy clothes, they would still pay to read about it. But she let Andrea have her second-hand experience; she had traveled more than Miranda, seen more of the ruin the war had caused. She gently touched the pink scab on Andrea’s side and wondered if there would be a time when Andrea would simply disappear and Miranda would never really know what had happened.
“You are careful, aren’t you?”
“As much as I can be,” Andrea said. “Don’t pick at it, the stitches aren’t the best.”
“What do you mean?”
“I did it myself.”
“I’m taking you back to Paris,” Miranda said. “So you can see a real doctor.”
Andrea pushed herself up on her elbow and stared at her. Miranda glared, just in case Andrea felt like doing something different. In the past this would have made her instantly complacent, but now she laughed again.
“Alright. I have to go there anyway. Ms. Beach’s poems are fake.”
“The Hulme?” Miranda asked.
“Yeah.” Andrea flopped on her back again. “I’m not surprised. He wasn’t very prolific. Anything we don’t have probably got blown up in the war anyway.” She sounded weary. Miranda didn’t say anything in case Andrea wanted to divulge more about her work, but there was only silence. After a moment, Miranda looked over; Andrea’s eyes had closed.
“Andrea?”
She jerked awake. “Sorry.” She got up and pulled off her pants; underneath she was wearing men’s shorts. Miranda had not seen them before and wondered where Andrea had got them. She shivered.
“Come back to bed before you get chilled,” Miranda said.
“Do you want anything?”
“There’s a nightdress in my bag. And pajamas if you want them.” She pulled her used stockings the rest of the way down her ankles and wadded them up on the nightstand.
“It’s been ages since I’ve worn these.” Andrea handed her the nightdress. It was cotton and smelled like the pouches of lavender she kept in her bags to ward off moths. In the women’s silk pajamas, Andrea looked more as Miranda remembered her. She curled around Miranda and huffed contentedly.
Miranda stayed awake after Andrea’s grip around her middle had relaxed and her breathing had evened out. She wondered how long Andrea would still want to find Miranda during her days in between travels. It wasn’t worth it, she knew, to dwell on something she couldn’t know, but in the half light from the hotel marquee outside, she couldn’t push the thought away. There had been a time, not too long ago, when Miranda would have done just about anything to keep Andrea from leaving until, quite suddenly, Andrea had left.
Behind her, Andrea chuffed quietly and twitched gently in her sleep. Miranda soothed her wrist until she was still again. She had no idea if Andrea would sleep through the night. The last time they had been together, she had not; she had woken shaking and white, utterly disoriented. And Miranda, caught completely off guard, had lain there next to her until she had quieted, not doing anything. They had not talked about it again. She was fairly certain they never would. The thought depressed her. She touched Andrea’s hand again and thought about work, about the magazine she was trying to coax into existence, and slept.
Andy awoke with the bell of a clock outside. She lay still and counted the leaden circles of time. It was six. The world was ending in an hour and twenty minutes. She guessed she’d been asleep for about five hours. That wasn’t bad. Next to her in the bed, Miranda slept on, her shoulders turned towards Andy, one hand flopped on Andy’s hip and her mouth slightly open. The sight made Andy smile. She had missed Miranda. Meeting the way they did in anonymous hotel rooms was nothing like her parents home in Cleveland, but there were still emotional similarities of coming home.
Outside on the street a car coughed and sputtered as it started. Andy tensed and forced herself to relax. From the bed she could see there was an unbroken line of light from under the door. She got up and made sure the door was still locked and peered through the keyhole at the mechanisms of the lock. That trick never worked. She sat in the chair by the window. The quiet of the room was overwhelming.
She got dressed in the clothes from the night before. Her shirt was wrinkled from the floor. She carefully folded the pajamas she’d slept in and put them back in Miranda’s bag. Andy knew better than to think Miranda had brought them for her, but she was touched that Miranda had felt inclined to share. The feeling of nervous energy persisted. She poked around the curtains of each window at he street below. There wasn’t anyone. She sank back into the chair, feeling foolish. She didn’t know who she had been expecting to see; all her debts were paid and no one found her threatening enough to have her followed to Bohemia in December. Despite her early success, her career as a book hunter had been embarrassingly dull. She had been lucky with the small packet of Carlyle letters she had unearthed in Munich and she knew it. But she wasn’t ready to give up yet. She rubbed sleep out of her eyes. Her luck would return. She’d miss the excitement of the hunt if she stopped. And Miranda would be unendingly smug if she slunk back to Paris with nothing. At least her haircut had gone over well. Thankfully Miranda hadn’t noticed until Andy had been appropriately sweet to soften her mood. If she’d noticed in the car, Andy had a feeling she would have slept in the train station.
Unable to stop herself, she got up and checked out the window again. The street was still empty.
“Either sit in the chair or go away.”
Andy turned. Miranda was watching her from the bed. “Sorry. I didn’t know you were awake.”
“You’re not as quiet as you think.”
“Oh well,” Andy said. “Do you want me to go so you can sleep?”
“What time is it?”
“A little after six.”
She stretched and pushed her bangs back into place. “I’m going back to Paris today.”
“What about your illustrator?” Andy asked. She remembered that was the original reason for Miranda’s trip to Prague.
“I can already tell she won’t be satisfactory.” Miranda reached across the bed to look behind the curtain. The gesture made Andy reflexively curious to see the view she already knew on the other side.
“Can you afford to be that selective?” She had heard rumors about how Miranda’s magazine was behind schedule. They were probably just rumors, but the paranoia that distance gave her helped them seem real.
“Of course I can.” Miranda got up. “What’s the point of doing something if you can’t do it well.”
“Alright,” Andy said. She shouldn’t have expected anything less from Miranda. She watched Miranda pull her nightdress over her head and wanted her unexpectedly. “Do you want to go again?”
Miranda stopped what she was doing and looked at Andy. It made Andy want to look away. “I don’t think so,” Miranda said. “There will be time later.”
The answer relieved Andy. The way it had felt to see Miranda the night before had frightened her. It still frightened her and that much emotional discharge seemed unfair before breakfast.
“I’m bringing you back to Paris with me,” Miranda said firmly, as if Andy might attempt to admit to having other plans.
“Can I stay till Christmas?” It meant a week in one place with guaranteed heat and food.
“You may stay till the twenty-seventh,” Miranda said. “Then the American editors are coming to visit and I’m sure you have places to go.”
Andy did, although she wasn’t sure where in the moment and didn’t care. She crossed the room and kissed Miranda the way she had never seen in motion pictures and didn’t know people really could kiss until Miranda. It made Miranda huff in annoyance, but she softened after a moment and let Andy wrap her arms around her neck. When Andy pulled back, Miranda promptly stepped away to fix her makeup, but Andy could see her smiling in the mirror over the vanity.
“There are telescopes set up near the old clock to see the planets aligning. Do you want to go look?”
“No,” Miranda said. “I would like breakfast and the paper, please.”
“Sure,” Andy said. “Anything else?”
“No, that’s all.”
***
Isaiah Newton was cold. He had been back to his flat for dry clothes, leaving his wet coat hung over his landlady’s fire, but had been unable to shake the chill that had settled into his frame from the river. He saw the boy leave the hotel and go into the newspaper stand next door. He wondered what he was buying and why his tie was untied and his pants were terribly wrinkled, but he was beaming into the gray street. After a moment, the boy came out with a stack of international papers and, still smiling, went back into the hotel. Isaiah Newton moved on.
He went by the small stone archway in the wall to the Jewish Cemetery and paused for a moment to look inside. In the dim light of the growing dawn he could see the jagged rows of crooked and broken tombstones. He wondered about the people buried under the layers of earth whose markers had been raised over time to avoid disturbing the graves. He wondered if they minded their crowded eternity together or if they, like him, simply waited patiently for the end of the world.
Around the corner from the cemetery gate he could see down the empty street to the new statue of Jan Hus in the square. In the dim light it was only a large, gray mass, the figure of Hus himself like a stark sentinel in the center.
When Newton reached the square it was mostly empty except for a cluster of people around a small telescope pointing into the sky. He checked his watch. The world would be ending soon. He sat down on the ground at the foot of the statue, his back resting against the concrete base. It was a clear morning and the light was just right to see the tiny points of light that were all the planets were in the sky. They were very close together in a small cluster like freckles on someone’s face. Newton waited, looking forward to the brief moments of warmth that would come as the sun grew larger and engulfed the earth in flames.
Over the next hour more people came to the square, but no one disturbed Isaiah Newton in his solitary vigil. After taking his watch out of his pocket enough times, he left it resting open on his outstretched palm. There were only a few minutes left. Somehow, too slowly for him to notice, the cluster of points had come together in one unified spot of white light. He waited.
Across the square a woman began to cry. After a moment she quieted and the whole collective held its breath for a long moment. It stretched onward then finally passed.
The woman began to cry again and someone laughed. The men who had been there with their telescope began to take it down and fold up their tripod.
Isaiah Newton stayed sitting on the cold, hard ground long after the crowd had gone and the venders who sold hot chestnuts and flowers arrived to set up their stalls. He closed his watch and put it back in his pocket. Back at his flat, his coat was probably dry. He thought about the woman he had saved, who had jumped off the bridge, and the woman who had jumped after her. He wondered if they had actually wanted to die. He thought about the smiling boy he had seen leaving the hotel and wondered what there had been to make that smile. Above him, a pigeon cooed on the statue. He got up, unsteady on his frozen legs. The night had passed. He walked across the square.
***
A/N - This story was grand fun to research. Just to share my nerdiness, Vogue (the Runway inspiration) was founded in America in 1892 and in Britain in 1916. The Paris Vogue would start in early 1920. Ms. Beach's store was the Shakespeare and Co. bookstore which had just opened in November of 1919. I was just amused by all the coincidences.
Pairing: Andy/Miranda
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Lauren Weisberger and Fox.
Rating: R
Author's Note: This originally began when I told my girlfriend that I would write her some good, non stereotypical steampunk. It turned out to be not steampunk at all and simply period. I had a grand time writing it. All you really need to know is that in 1919 a guy named Albert Porta predicted the world would end on December 17th because six planets would align causing a magnetic force that would make the sun explode. Obviously, that didn't happen.
Thanks for reading!
Isaiah Newton was cold. His coat, which had been recently soaked with the rest of him in the river, clung to his back and shoulders, sending chills into his core. He attempted to flip up his collar around his neck but only succeeded in flapping it wetly against his skin. His packet of cigarettes was limp in his fingers. He dropped it on the pavement and stepped on the box, crushing it. Somewhere to his left he heard a splash followed by a scream. He looked. The splash had been someone jumping off the bridge into the river he had just hauled himself out of, but the jumper had not screamed. A woman in a long, white fur coat was leaning half off the railing, one hand pointing at the water, the other over her mouth. Newton waited.
The person in the water, Isaiah could see it was also a woman, flapped her arms helplessly at the woman still pointing down at her. Her large dress had buoyed out and was mostly keeping her afloat. Newton looked around at the other people on the bridge. Another woman in the jumper’s party was gesturing at him. He sighed. There was a man in their party as well, smoking a cigarette in a short, black holder and staring up the river in the other direction. Newton ground his waterlogged package further under his foot.
“Isn’t someone going to help her?”
Two boys had climbed up on one of the saints’ statues. Neither of them were dressed for the temperature and they clung to the statue with bare hands and looked excitedly down into the water.
“I suppose she wanted to jump,” said the second. Newton could tell they were local by their Czech dialect which was so thick and jargon-filled he almost couldn’t make it out.
His companion opened his mouth to respond when a man ran past them, pulled off his coat and jumped into the river. At least he had had the good sense to take his coat off, thought Newton. The boys laughed and jumped out of the flickering light cast by the gas lamp above.
“Serves her right,” he heard one of them cackle from the darkness.
Newton shivered and tried again to pull his coat closer around him. He probably should have jumped in, he thought as he walked off the bridge towards Old Town. The world was ending soon anyway.
***
Miranda Priestly expected to be the only American at the French Ambassador’s reception at Krinsky Palace or Palác Krinskych as her Czech driver had called it. She did not have to attend, it was a merely a formality, since she was in town. Most of the truly important people were in Paris for the holidays. She had heard a silly rumor from her staff that people had been going under ground in fear of those absurd reports that the sun would explode.
Her table was close enough to the Ambassador’s table that she did not feel shunned or unappreciated, but far enough away that she didn’t feel the need to actually speak to him. She was seated next to an aging duchess who only spoke Czech.
“Lord Andrew Sackville,” was announced and Miranda noticed no one turned their heads. Just like the gas lights on the street corners, the announcer’s presence showed just how Prague was behind the times. In Paris, only the state dinners cared enough to know everyone who arrived.
She was not at all surprised to see Lord Sackville weave between the circular tables and delicate, wicker chairs to dip gracefully into the seat next to her.
“Evening all,” he said in an anonymously foreign accent that could have been English or French or even German, but certainly not American. Miranda thought it was lazy.
“Does Mrs. Nicolson know you’ve borrowed her name?” she said quietly so that the already-nodding duchess could not hear them. Miranda could remember a time when Lord Andrew had been so struck by the presence of duchesses that he became quite boring to be around. Now he scarcely noticed them and turned to Miranda as if he had only just became aware of her presence and was delighted, or at least amused, she was there. Miranda became even more irritated.
“I use it all the time,” Lord Andrew said, settling into a London accent that was too lower-class for their current environment. “I think she’s a bit distracted by Mrs. Trefusis at the moment.”
Miranda had read the latest reports in the papers before she had left Paris. “Violet has always had a flair for dramatics.”
“I forgot you know her,” Lord Andrew said. “What’s Vita like? She sounds marvelous in the papers.”
“It’s tacky to comment on someone based on the papers,” Miranda said.
“You should talk. Aren’t you starting a new magazine?”
Miranda ignored him. The banquet hall was beginning to fill, but no one seemed to be interested in their conversation. Even so, Miranda did not tell Lord Andrew that she was probably just Mrs. Nicolson’s type, husband or not. She pursed her lips and Lord Andrew looked away.
After a moment, dinner was announced and the room was quickly saturated with carefully dressed servers carrying bowls of watery soup and bottles of cheap champagne. Besides the aging duchess, who awoke with the start of the meal, the only other people at their table were an American business man and his partner. Their names had been announced, but Miranda had not been listening.
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” Lord Andrew said. Miranda knew he was lying. “Are you here on business or pleasure?”
The two men across the table would probably notice if she ignored him, so she said, “I’m looking at illustrators.”
“Ah,” Lord Andrew grinned. “I heard rumors that Chanel isn’t going in on your little Paris Runway venture. Is that true?”
“You know it’s true,” Miranda snapped. “The announcement was made a week ago.” Lord Andrew nudged her foot under the table in what was most likely meant to be a sympathetic gesture. Miranda crossed her legs.
“My wife loves Runway,” one of the business men said. “Do you work for them?”
“Mmm.” She tightened her lips at him. “Lord Sackville did too, briefly. Didn’t you, Andrew.”
“It was a long time ago.”
It had only been six months ago, but Miranda let Lord Andrew get away with the exaggeration.
“This must be a nice little reunion, then,” the business man said. Miranda noticed his associate said very little.
“Quite,” she said. She signaled a waiter to remove her untouched soup.
“I’m here for fun,” Lord Andrew announced. Miranda could tell he was trying to salvage the mood and didn’t want to help. “I heard that a few of Hulme’s poems have turned up here and I thought it’d be interesting to look into.”
The Americans had never heard of Hulme.
“Who told you that?” Miranda asked.
“Ms. Beach.”
“How is her little shop?”
“Fine,” Lord Andrew said. “Business is booming.”
Miranda had a vested interest in Ms. Beach’s little shop and was about to inquire further when the American said, “I’ve heard the world is going to end tomorrow.”
“The world is not ending tomorrow,” Miranda said sharply. Next to her the duchess jumped and dropped her fork into the silent business man’s lap. His hand shook as he handed it back to her.
“So what do you do?” Lord Andrew asked the Americans.
During the main course, a young Czech man appeared and invited the duchess to his table. She glanced snidely back over her shoulder as she went. Miranda watched Lord Andrew get more and more impassioned about the economic effects of American capitalism until the talkative business man, whose name was Drew, said, “For a Brit, you have very strong opinions on the subject.”
Lord Andrew paused for a moment. He had clearly forgotten that, for the evening, he was not American. Miranda stared at the strawberry tart that had just been placed in front of her. Strawberries were out of season.
“Well, imperialism’s a load of rubbish as well,” he burst out. Miranda uncrossed her legs and touched Lord Andrew’s ankle gently with her toe. He sighed quickly and stabbed his tart.
“Are you saying you’re a communist?” the quiet business man said. His voice was cold and unpleasant. Miranda hoped he wouldn’t speak much more.
“I’m sure he didn’t mean that, Arthur,” the first business man said.
“It is always hard to tell exactly what Andrew means, Mr. Drew,” Miranda said.
“I always mean what I say,” Lord Andrew said. He smiled derisively. “Wilde always said political parties are never the place to talk politics, but I am not a communist.”
The Americans had never heard of Wilde either.
“Thank you for sparing us another of your sermons on the common man,” Miranda said at Lord Andrew. “Since I’m sure that was coming.”
“Oh, Mrs. Priestly - ”
“It was absolutely charming meeting you gentlemen,” she went on. They both jumped up as she rose. “But I’m afraid I must forgo coffee.” She did not say good bye.
Her host, who she had not seen all evening, met her in the entrance hall to thank her for attending his little party. She told him the news from Paris until he asked one too many questions about Runway and Coco Chanel and she said good night.
Lord Andrew was waiting in the back of her car. He shifted to accommodate her fur coat.
“I don’t recall offering you a lift,” she said.
“You meant to,” Andrea said, dropping the accent entirely.
“I suppose I don’t have much of a choice now.” Her irritation returned. She raised her voice, “Why aren’t we moving? Can you actually drive?”
The driver turned in his seat. “Where to?” he said in thickly accented French.
“Hotel,” Miranda said in English. She waited a full thirty seconds to repeat it in French. The car chugged to life and began to move down the street.
“You should be nicer to him,” Andrea said.
“You shouldn’t tell me how to handle my staff,” Miranda said. “You’ve behaved badly tonight. What were you thinking asking about Chanel like that?” She felt relieved and tense that her annoyance had made her snap.
The mask of roguish gallantry that Andrea had been holding all evening slipped. The vindictive, frustrated piece of Miranda was pleased to see it fall.
“I was curious,” Andrea said. “I’ve been hearing all sorts of things. I was worried.”
“About what?”
“About you.” Andrea tried to take her hand, but Miranda moved away. “I heard she wanted your job.”
Miranda snorted sharply and the cold air stung her nose. “Ms. Chanel would like me to work for her, not the other way around.”
“Oh,” Andrea said. “Are you?”
“And leave a job that pays more and has more influence? Don’t be stupid.” Even in the shadows of the car, she could see Andrea’s brow furrow. There was more, Miranda knew, and she wished Andrea wouldn’t ask.
“I’ve also heard she wants you in her bed.”
“Don’t be absurd,” Miranda hissed angrily. The fact that Andrea felt the need to question the rumors upset her more than their existence.
“She’s very beautiful,” Andrea said.
“She looks like a cat,” Miranda said, unfairly, she knew. “Jealousy isn’t becoming, Andrea.”
Andrea turned away to look out the window. “Neither is lying.”
Miranda let herself slump back against the seat and looked out her own window. She didn’t know the streets well enough to tell if they were close to the hotel. She wouldn’t be surprised if her driver took the long way after how she’d treated him, but she wouldn’t pay him if he did. There had been one time with Chanel, at a fashion event in Brighton just after her husband had left her. But it had been so long ago that Andrea was probably still in a one room high school somewhere in Ohio. She knew she should tell Andrea this, that it would solve everything, but she was still so irritated that the explanation stuck in her chest.
“The streets are empty,” Andrea said. Her voice was muffled and Miranda couldn’t tell her emotion. “Everyone must be inside for the end of the world.”
Miranda rolled her eyes. The car turned a corner and she saw the lights of the hotel.
“Why are you even here?”
“I heard you would be,” Andrea said.
The car pulled up to the curb and the doorman had the door open as soon as it stopped. “Are you coming up?” Miranda asked Lord Andrew.
“I don’t have anywhere else planned.”
That was unwise, Miranda thought, but didn’t say, because it depressed her to plan for fights. She got out and waited. She turned back; Andrea was framed in the black square of the door, her dark hair disappearing in the shadow and only her pale skin was lit by the bright electric lights from the hotel’s marquee.
“Andrea?”
They were silent up the stairs and into the room. Miranda looked about and wondered again if Emily had really put her best effort into hotel selections. She let Andrea take her coat and hang it in the closet.
“Where are your things?” Miranda asked.
“At the train station.” Andrea sat gingerly on the chair by the window and tugged on her tie. “They can stay there. I didn’t bring anything for you this time.”
“That’s alright,” Miranda said. “I don’t have anything for you either.” She never had any gifts for Andrea, just things other people had given her and she didn’t want.
“I missed you,” Andrea said.
“It’s been a long time,” Miranda said. It always felt strange to be alone with Andrea after they hadn’t seen each other for months. The last time they were alone had been late at night in a hotel in London. They had not talked at all. She knew she should ask about Andrea’s life and the places she had been, but instead she almost wanted Andrea to reintroduce herself to account for the dissonance of being so used to someone who seemed so foreign.
“It’s sounds like you’ve been busy,” Andrea said. She tugged on her tie again and Miranda realized she wouldn’t get undressed until Miranda did. In the car that would have been irritating, but it touched her to see Andrea fiddling with her cufflinks.
“You can read that in the papers.” She crossed to the small vanity by the wash basin and removed her necklace and earrings. “Come here.”
She pulled on both sides of Andrea’s bowtie and it came apart in her hands. Andrea leaned forward and kissed her cheek gently and softly, the way she had the very first time that Miranda could never forget. The action caused a feeling of tenderness and affection that was so startling Miranda shut her eyes to stave it off.
“You looked very beautiful tonight,” Andrea said against her skin.
“Thank you,” Miranda said, coming back to herself. She enjoyed that Andrea’s compliments never felt dutiful. “You looked very smart.” She ran her hand through Andrea’s hair, trying to slide the wig off, but it didn’t come. “Your hair - ” She stepped back to look.
“I cut it,” Andrea said. “It was easier that way. One less thing to carry with me and worry about. Do you hate it?” She touched her bangs that had fallen forward on her forehead and looked up at Miranda bashfully through her eyelashes.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Miranda said. “You don’t care that much what I think.”
“I suppose not,” Andrea said. “Not now.” Miranda knew she still cared, regardless of what both of them pretended, but it lacked the animosity and anxiety that had been there when they first met. “I’m sorry, though, I know you liked my hair.”
“It will grow back,” Miranda said. “For now, this suits you.”
“Thanks,” Andrea said. She touched Miranda’s chin and stared at her. Miranda held her breath, feeling exposed and hidden in the way Andrea’s brown eyes moved up and down over her features. She wondered what Andrea saw when she looked at her this, the way she did every time they met now. Miranda knew it had something to do with her work and the way it affected her, but she never asked and Andrea rarely spoke of it.
When she couldn’t bear the silence, Miranda kissed her. It was difficult to tell if Andrea had been expecting it; she whimpered and rocked back on her heels giving Miranda, who gripped her shoulders, the swooping feeling in her stomach of falling for a second before Andrea’s hands on her hips steadied her.
“It’s alright,” Andrea said quietly.
Miranda kissed her hard to keep her from saying more. She tasted like wine and the stale tart from dinner and the Andrea saltiness that was always there, blue on her tongue. Miranda kissed away from her mouth, across her jaw line to avoid being overwhelmed by the taste she hadn’t realized she’d missed.
“You smell perfect,” Andrea said. Miranda remembered just how vocal Andrea could be when she really wanted silence and bit hard on the muscle at the base of her neck, making Andrea hiss. It seemed to startle her into motion, her arms came up around Miranda’s waist and her head fell forward to nuzzle her nose into the hair at Miranda’s temple. Andrea kissed her temple and her throat, making her shiver, and sighed heavily.
“I’ve missed you,” she murmured, almost reverently.
Miranda, attempting to quell another wave of tenderness, said, “Oh get on with it”
Andrea jerked her head up and grinned. Miranda could see the same gleeful excitement that had been in Lord Andrew’s eyes during dinner, but instead of irritating her, it made the muscles in her abdomen lurch and contract in an excruciatingly pleasant manner.
And then it had been like they’d never been apart. Their mouths crashed together, smearing Miranda’s lipstick so that she could taste it on Andrea, whose hands slid down her back and up her front, brushing against her breasts, making her moan. She pushed off Andrea’s jacket and clumsily undid the buttons to her waist coat and shirt front. Underneath she found the layers of white strips, usually torn from old bed sheets, that held down Andrea’s breasts. She huffed impatiently and pulled at the edges, trying to find end of a strip. This made Andrea chuckle softly. She kissed Miranda again and stepped back to reach where the outermost piece of fabric had been tucked under her arm. When Miranda took it and tugged, she even spun obligingly so that Miranda could pull the fabric away. As soon as it all fluttered to the floor, she bent forward to kiss away the angry red lines that had been left in Andrea’s skin. Andrea moaned. Her hands shook on Miranda’s shoulders and wove through her hair.
She pressed open-mouthed kisses down Andrea’s torso until she felt something rough against her lips. They both froze. Andrea tried to back away but Miranda held on to her hips. There was a four-inch line of stitches down her side that had scabbed over. The edges were already showing shiny pink scar tissue.
“What - ”
“I had an accident,” Andrea said. She laughed and it did not sound like her. “It’s fine.”
Miranda straightened.
“Miranda - ”
She cupped Andrea’s face unsure if she felt fear or fury. “Tell me.”
Andrea’s eyes drifted away and began to cloud over. The anger that had filled Miranda a moment before was replaced anxious apprehension. She did not know what would happen. She did not know if Andrea would tell her how she had been injured, or if she wanted to know, or how she would react to that retelling. They had never talked about the life Andrea led while she was traveling. Miranda knew it was dangerous, but Andrea liked her work. Now, Miranda could tell, she was somewhere else, somewhere Miranda had never been.
“Andrea?”
She jolted and looked desperately at Miranda. She pulled Miranda’s hands down and kissed her hard, pushing them back against the vanity. The mirror rattled. Andrea plucked at the silk straps over Miranda’s shoulders.
“I want to see you,” she said sounding small and frightened. Miranda hesitated. She had spent time with other people to avoid feeling things before. Even though she understood what Andrea was doing, part of her was still resentful and wanted to stop, just to call Andrea on her act. But she understood it and reached behind her shoulder for the zipper to her dress. The straps fell down her shoulders and Andrea kissed down her chest and bit down lightly on her nipple. Miranda groaned.
“Bed?” Andrea asked.
“Yes.” She pushed her dress to the floor and shivered as cold air hit her legs
Andrea made a great show of carefully unhooking her stockings from her garter belt and kissing the creases of her hips and up her torso to her breasts, making her writhe. Her underthings fell off the bed onto the floor. She shifted and opened her legs to accommodate Andrea’s hand.
“You’re willing,” Andrea said.
Andrea’s thumb traced lightly over her clit making Miranda’s whole body jerk up off the bed. “You like getting me like this.”
“I do.” Andrea smiled. “Can I?”
“Yes, of course. Stupid question.” Miranda pushed her hips forward. Her mouth fell open as Andrea pushed two fingers inside her. “Oh god. Please.”
Andrea shifted so that she hovered over Miranda, all her weight on her free arm and dipped her head to kiss Miranda’s cheek. “Yes, Miranda,” she said lightly.
“Cruel,” Miranda huffed, trying to find more friction against Andrea’s hand.
“Oh no.” Andrea nuzzled her nose into the hair at Miranda’s temple and increased the speed of her hand. Miranda began to gasp, feeling the heat build in her stomach. “Never that,” Andrea whispered. “I’ll be whatever you want.”
“You know what I want.” She felt Andrea’s hand shift and her thumb began to rub over her clit. “Yes, that. Please.” She began to babble and clamped her mouth shut. She shut her eyes and came with a loud moan.
When Miranda stopped shaking, Andrea moved her hand away and carefully lay down next to her. She kissed Miranda’s breast and bit the nipple playfully. Miranda clapped her hand to her mouth to block her squeak of surprise. This made Andrea laugh. She touched Miranda’s cheek. Her hand was sticky and Miranda could smell herself.
“I don’t care if you - ”
“I’m not,” Miranda said. Andrea’s hand fell away. She told Andrea about the one time she and Chanel had been together in the past and was thankful when Andrea did not question why she hadn’t said something before.
Miranda stretched. She would get cold soon if they didn’t go again. “You’re wearing too many clothes.”
“I love you,” Andrea said. “You do know that, don’t you?”
With her hair flopping forward over her eyes, Andrea looked young and boyish. Miranda pushed it back and smiled. She never would have listened to such an admission from the Andrea who had started work with her, but the Andrea with stitches down her side and men’s clothes was a different person and Miranda did not doubt her surety.
“I know,” she said.
“The end of the world and all,” Andrea said. “I wanted to make sure.”
“You don’t really believe all that rubbish, do you?” Miranda asked.
“No,” Andrea said. “I talked with some scientists in Munich and they say this sort of thing has happened before. There’s no magnetic current. At least nothing that we can feel.”
“The fuss is ridiculous,” Miranda said. “One of my secretaries jumped off a bridge today.”
“Oh god. Was she alright?”
“Someone pulled her out.”
“Miranda - ”
“I told everyone the world would not be ending and they should act accordingly. Any behavior to the contrary would not be tolerated.” She could tell Andrea wanted to say more, but instead she rested her head back on Miranda’s collarbone and began stroking her side gently. Miranda hummed in contentment and Andrea slid closer.
“Are you cold?”
“No,” Andrea said. She pressed a kiss to Miranda’s neck. “I just like the feel of you.”
Miranda nodded although she knew Andrea could not see her. She wondered when they would be in the same place again.
“It’s strange how quiet it is,” Andrea said. “I guess people are more ready to accept an apocalypse after the war.”
Andrea spoke of the war as if she had been there, when in reality she had not left America until a week after the armistice. Miranda had been in London for most of it, sent over to help start the British Runway on the philosophy that although no one had any money to buy clothes, they would still pay to read about it. But she let Andrea have her second-hand experience; she had traveled more than Miranda, seen more of the ruin the war had caused. She gently touched the pink scab on Andrea’s side and wondered if there would be a time when Andrea would simply disappear and Miranda would never really know what had happened.
“You are careful, aren’t you?”
“As much as I can be,” Andrea said. “Don’t pick at it, the stitches aren’t the best.”
“What do you mean?”
“I did it myself.”
“I’m taking you back to Paris,” Miranda said. “So you can see a real doctor.”
Andrea pushed herself up on her elbow and stared at her. Miranda glared, just in case Andrea felt like doing something different. In the past this would have made her instantly complacent, but now she laughed again.
“Alright. I have to go there anyway. Ms. Beach’s poems are fake.”
“The Hulme?” Miranda asked.
“Yeah.” Andrea flopped on her back again. “I’m not surprised. He wasn’t very prolific. Anything we don’t have probably got blown up in the war anyway.” She sounded weary. Miranda didn’t say anything in case Andrea wanted to divulge more about her work, but there was only silence. After a moment, Miranda looked over; Andrea’s eyes had closed.
“Andrea?”
She jerked awake. “Sorry.” She got up and pulled off her pants; underneath she was wearing men’s shorts. Miranda had not seen them before and wondered where Andrea had got them. She shivered.
“Come back to bed before you get chilled,” Miranda said.
“Do you want anything?”
“There’s a nightdress in my bag. And pajamas if you want them.” She pulled her used stockings the rest of the way down her ankles and wadded them up on the nightstand.
“It’s been ages since I’ve worn these.” Andrea handed her the nightdress. It was cotton and smelled like the pouches of lavender she kept in her bags to ward off moths. In the women’s silk pajamas, Andrea looked more as Miranda remembered her. She curled around Miranda and huffed contentedly.
Miranda stayed awake after Andrea’s grip around her middle had relaxed and her breathing had evened out. She wondered how long Andrea would still want to find Miranda during her days in between travels. It wasn’t worth it, she knew, to dwell on something she couldn’t know, but in the half light from the hotel marquee outside, she couldn’t push the thought away. There had been a time, not too long ago, when Miranda would have done just about anything to keep Andrea from leaving until, quite suddenly, Andrea had left.
Behind her, Andrea chuffed quietly and twitched gently in her sleep. Miranda soothed her wrist until she was still again. She had no idea if Andrea would sleep through the night. The last time they had been together, she had not; she had woken shaking and white, utterly disoriented. And Miranda, caught completely off guard, had lain there next to her until she had quieted, not doing anything. They had not talked about it again. She was fairly certain they never would. The thought depressed her. She touched Andrea’s hand again and thought about work, about the magazine she was trying to coax into existence, and slept.
Andy awoke with the bell of a clock outside. She lay still and counted the leaden circles of time. It was six. The world was ending in an hour and twenty minutes. She guessed she’d been asleep for about five hours. That wasn’t bad. Next to her in the bed, Miranda slept on, her shoulders turned towards Andy, one hand flopped on Andy’s hip and her mouth slightly open. The sight made Andy smile. She had missed Miranda. Meeting the way they did in anonymous hotel rooms was nothing like her parents home in Cleveland, but there were still emotional similarities of coming home.
Outside on the street a car coughed and sputtered as it started. Andy tensed and forced herself to relax. From the bed she could see there was an unbroken line of light from under the door. She got up and made sure the door was still locked and peered through the keyhole at the mechanisms of the lock. That trick never worked. She sat in the chair by the window. The quiet of the room was overwhelming.
She got dressed in the clothes from the night before. Her shirt was wrinkled from the floor. She carefully folded the pajamas she’d slept in and put them back in Miranda’s bag. Andy knew better than to think Miranda had brought them for her, but she was touched that Miranda had felt inclined to share. The feeling of nervous energy persisted. She poked around the curtains of each window at he street below. There wasn’t anyone. She sank back into the chair, feeling foolish. She didn’t know who she had been expecting to see; all her debts were paid and no one found her threatening enough to have her followed to Bohemia in December. Despite her early success, her career as a book hunter had been embarrassingly dull. She had been lucky with the small packet of Carlyle letters she had unearthed in Munich and she knew it. But she wasn’t ready to give up yet. She rubbed sleep out of her eyes. Her luck would return. She’d miss the excitement of the hunt if she stopped. And Miranda would be unendingly smug if she slunk back to Paris with nothing. At least her haircut had gone over well. Thankfully Miranda hadn’t noticed until Andy had been appropriately sweet to soften her mood. If she’d noticed in the car, Andy had a feeling she would have slept in the train station.
Unable to stop herself, she got up and checked out the window again. The street was still empty.
“Either sit in the chair or go away.”
Andy turned. Miranda was watching her from the bed. “Sorry. I didn’t know you were awake.”
“You’re not as quiet as you think.”
“Oh well,” Andy said. “Do you want me to go so you can sleep?”
“What time is it?”
“A little after six.”
She stretched and pushed her bangs back into place. “I’m going back to Paris today.”
“What about your illustrator?” Andy asked. She remembered that was the original reason for Miranda’s trip to Prague.
“I can already tell she won’t be satisfactory.” Miranda reached across the bed to look behind the curtain. The gesture made Andy reflexively curious to see the view she already knew on the other side.
“Can you afford to be that selective?” She had heard rumors about how Miranda’s magazine was behind schedule. They were probably just rumors, but the paranoia that distance gave her helped them seem real.
“Of course I can.” Miranda got up. “What’s the point of doing something if you can’t do it well.”
“Alright,” Andy said. She shouldn’t have expected anything less from Miranda. She watched Miranda pull her nightdress over her head and wanted her unexpectedly. “Do you want to go again?”
Miranda stopped what she was doing and looked at Andy. It made Andy want to look away. “I don’t think so,” Miranda said. “There will be time later.”
The answer relieved Andy. The way it had felt to see Miranda the night before had frightened her. It still frightened her and that much emotional discharge seemed unfair before breakfast.
“I’m bringing you back to Paris with me,” Miranda said firmly, as if Andy might attempt to admit to having other plans.
“Can I stay till Christmas?” It meant a week in one place with guaranteed heat and food.
“You may stay till the twenty-seventh,” Miranda said. “Then the American editors are coming to visit and I’m sure you have places to go.”
Andy did, although she wasn’t sure where in the moment and didn’t care. She crossed the room and kissed Miranda the way she had never seen in motion pictures and didn’t know people really could kiss until Miranda. It made Miranda huff in annoyance, but she softened after a moment and let Andy wrap her arms around her neck. When Andy pulled back, Miranda promptly stepped away to fix her makeup, but Andy could see her smiling in the mirror over the vanity.
“There are telescopes set up near the old clock to see the planets aligning. Do you want to go look?”
“No,” Miranda said. “I would like breakfast and the paper, please.”
“Sure,” Andy said. “Anything else?”
“No, that’s all.”
***
Isaiah Newton was cold. He had been back to his flat for dry clothes, leaving his wet coat hung over his landlady’s fire, but had been unable to shake the chill that had settled into his frame from the river. He saw the boy leave the hotel and go into the newspaper stand next door. He wondered what he was buying and why his tie was untied and his pants were terribly wrinkled, but he was beaming into the gray street. After a moment, the boy came out with a stack of international papers and, still smiling, went back into the hotel. Isaiah Newton moved on.
He went by the small stone archway in the wall to the Jewish Cemetery and paused for a moment to look inside. In the dim light of the growing dawn he could see the jagged rows of crooked and broken tombstones. He wondered about the people buried under the layers of earth whose markers had been raised over time to avoid disturbing the graves. He wondered if they minded their crowded eternity together or if they, like him, simply waited patiently for the end of the world.
Around the corner from the cemetery gate he could see down the empty street to the new statue of Jan Hus in the square. In the dim light it was only a large, gray mass, the figure of Hus himself like a stark sentinel in the center.
When Newton reached the square it was mostly empty except for a cluster of people around a small telescope pointing into the sky. He checked his watch. The world would be ending soon. He sat down on the ground at the foot of the statue, his back resting against the concrete base. It was a clear morning and the light was just right to see the tiny points of light that were all the planets were in the sky. They were very close together in a small cluster like freckles on someone’s face. Newton waited, looking forward to the brief moments of warmth that would come as the sun grew larger and engulfed the earth in flames.
Over the next hour more people came to the square, but no one disturbed Isaiah Newton in his solitary vigil. After taking his watch out of his pocket enough times, he left it resting open on his outstretched palm. There were only a few minutes left. Somehow, too slowly for him to notice, the cluster of points had come together in one unified spot of white light. He waited.
Across the square a woman began to cry. After a moment she quieted and the whole collective held its breath for a long moment. It stretched onward then finally passed.
The woman began to cry again and someone laughed. The men who had been there with their telescope began to take it down and fold up their tripod.
Isaiah Newton stayed sitting on the cold, hard ground long after the crowd had gone and the venders who sold hot chestnuts and flowers arrived to set up their stalls. He closed his watch and put it back in his pocket. Back at his flat, his coat was probably dry. He thought about the woman he had saved, who had jumped off the bridge, and the woman who had jumped after her. He wondered if they had actually wanted to die. He thought about the smiling boy he had seen leaving the hotel and wondered what there had been to make that smile. Above him, a pigeon cooed on the statue. He got up, unsteady on his frozen legs. The night had passed. He walked across the square.
***
A/N - This story was grand fun to research. Just to share my nerdiness, Vogue (the Runway inspiration) was founded in America in 1892 and in Britain in 1916. The Paris Vogue would start in early 1920. Ms. Beach's store was the Shakespeare and Co. bookstore which had just opened in November of 1919. I was just amused by all the coincidences.