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chapel in search of models.
    She took the wide staircase down to the lower level, listening to see if they sounded like birds, too, since Aretha had described them that way, but they didn’t. In fact, they didn’t seem to be making any noise at all. Countless movie scenes of fashion shoots, from
Blow-Up
to
Sex and the City
, had conditioned Regina to expect to hear loud music as the fashion fantasy took shape under the hypercritical eyes of people who knew the difference between Prada and Dior.But when she got to the bottom of the stairs, the first thing Regina noticed was how quiet it was. No music. No laughter. If she listened closely, she thought she could hear the sound of female voices murmuring somewhere nearby, but they were so quiet, she wasn’t even sure where they were coming from. She headed in what she hoped was the right direction.
    She had thought they were going to be using the small dressing rooms provided for speakers and performers, but the tiny cubicles had obviously not appealed to these women. Instead, someone had erected a kind of indoor tent for them in the large lobby space downstairs. It was constructed of diaphanous white fabric that fluttered softly in the artificial breeze coming from the building’s ventilation system. Through the gently billowing fabric, Regina could see five ghostly, back-lit figures moving around slowly. They appeared to be very tall and very thin, except for two who were shorter and quicker and appeared to be helping the others into and out of their clothes.
    “Looking for someone?”
    The voice came from so close beside Regina’s left shoulder, it made her jump. “You startled me!”
    The woman standing in front of her didn’t blink or apologize. “Security is supposed to be keeping people out of this area.”
    Regina was struck by how tall and thin this woman was, too. Her dark hair was pulled back so severely that it gave her face a stark, dramatic strangeness, and her neck was so long, it was as if her head was floating independent of her body. Regina had seen pictures of the models, but their manager—this had to be her in the flesh, what little there was of it—had been only a disembodied voice on the phone.
    “I’m Regina Hamilton.”
    “Then you’re looking for me,” the woman said, extending a black-gloved hand. “Serena Mayflower.”
    “Welcome to Atlanta,” Regina said, wondering if black leather gloves in May was the result of a cold nature or the latest fashiontrend. “Aretha’s upstairs getting things set up. She wanted me to make sure you have everything you need.”
    “We’re fine,” Serena said. “The
Essence
stylists are with them now making some final wardrobe decisions.”
    Regina assumed those would be the shorter, faster silhouettes behind the veil. “Did you bring hair and makeup people from New York, too?”
    “They always do their own makeup,” Serena said. “Our skin is very sensitive so we try not to be careless.”
    “That’s pretty unusual, isn’t it?” Regina said, surprised.
    “It’s unheard of,” Serena said, “but we know what works for us and we stick with it.”
    The way she said
we
made Regina wonder if these women were related, but before she could ask, the white drapes were pushed aside and one of the models came out, looked around quickly, and then walked over to where they were standing. Regina had seen models before, but none as tall and skinny as this one. Everything on her was elongated, from her giraffelike neck to her mile-long legs. The closer she got, the taller she loomed, which made Regina think that she was going to have to tip back her head to say hello—like a little child being prompted to greet the pastor after church. She needn’t have worried. Pleasantries were the last thing on this woman’s mind.
    “Look at this shit!” the model said, ignoring Regina completely and pointing one long, bony finger at her own head. “Scylla cannot be serious!”
    She was wearing a pair of