As the iron doors of Bedford Hills Correctional Center slammed shut behind them, Lila counted thirty-seven grains of melted snow seeped into the sneaker holes. The gray hoodie he wore when he was arrested five years ago is now wrapped in a cold December wind like a shroud soaked in ice water. As the warden drops the plastic bag of old objects into the mud, a nil-sized sapphires tumble through the slit - the surprise Ethan hid in cream of mushroom soup when he proposed.
"Your delivery." The guard threw the gilded envelope through the iron fence, and the iris-flower totem on the fire print cut into her palm. Two wedding photos slide out of the invitation, Scarlett Harlowe's train veil is covered with real ice-crystal diamonds, and Ethan Weston's bramble wedding ring on his fiancee's ring finger is set against the iris birthmark on his collarbone.
Her nails dug deep into the wedding date - the day she was supposed to have a solo show at MoMA. On the back of the photo was written in champagne gold ink: "We sincerely invite you to witness our eternal burning love, how about a seat next to the fire hydrant?" After all, you are the best at putting out fires."
The sleet suddenly turned sticky. She wiped the ice from her eyelashes and noticed a rusty scarlet on her fingers. It was the same color that night five years ago, when Ethan ran into the fire clutching a burning canvas, only to tremble as she was held to the ground by the police and say, "I saw her lighting matches."
"Bitch and dog, forever." From behind she could be heard the gum-chewing sneer of the delivery man, whose bare ankles were scorched by the heat from the tailpipe of her Harley. Platinum dust suddenly fell from the inside page of the invitation, which was a laser-carved fragment of the New York Times newspaper: "Weston Tech CEO announces marriage, Fiancee is heir to Harlowe Jewelry Group."
She stuffed shredded paper into her mouth and chewed until the smell of blood crept through her teeth. The plastic dinner knife hidden in the prison kitchen slipped from his cuff, but Ethan was about to cut the invitation card with a smile, and was shocked by the church bell on the hour. The spire of St. Patrick's Cathedral punctured the clouds, twelve white doves flew from the edge of Scarlett's veil -- wait, why is there a stained-glass painting of her own design in the background of the wedding photo?
Memories suddenly crack. Late at night five years ago, Ethan's damp fingers were rubbing the glass: "When we get married, I want an angel to hold your favorite iris..." Now, in the photo, the flower stem in the angel's hand is tangled with barbed thorns, and Scarlett's tattoo on the back of the waist is clearly --
"Madam?" She found herself standing in the floor-to-ceiling window of a luxury store on Fifth Avenue when the homeless man rolled into her kerosene-soaked blanket. Straw-colored hair was frozen in the reflection, while the models in the window wore new season sunglasses that reflected the eerie deflection of the street corner surveillance cameras.
When the scalded, scarred face suddenly pressed close to the window, Lila recognized herself before the scream spilled out of her throat. No, after five years in the boiler room of a women's prison, this body should be covered in calluses not chemical burns. What's even worse is that inside the homeless man's cloudy pupils, where the sapphire puncture should have been in her right earlobe, it's a festering blood hole.
"Witch who burned the gallery!" The homeless man pulls back waving the bottle, and Lila stumbles to hold onto the trash can. As the juice of a rotting orange seeped into the wound on her palm, she finally saw the news on the window TV: "A fire engine donated by the Harlowe family has arrived in Chelsea today to coincide with the Westons' engagement parade...."
The wiper beat suddenly overlaps the heartbeat. The long black Lincoln rear window slowly drops, and Scarlett's iris-blue nail is careening the back of Ethan's neck, the ring finger of his left hand twitching and curling into some memory shape - like the spasm he had the night he snuffed out a cigarette and said, "I'm out for a hangover cure."
As a truck whistle tore through her hallucinations, Lila found herself standing in front of the old MoMA. The charred marble columns are covered in dust sheets, while the new Harlowe Gallery opposite is exhibiting "Rising from the ashes". A huge poster showed Scarlett's side face in a crown of flame, with the slogan burning her retinas: "Some phoenixes rise from the ashes of others."
"Search the back alley." The guard poked her in the back with a baton, and the sapphire embedded in the stick was strikingly similar to the one Ethan had given her. The damp back alley was full of packing boxes, and a gap in a rain-soaked carton revealed half a charred painting - clearly the Iris of Thorns that she had failed to salvage.
A red wine stained job Posting on the rusted back door reads: "Cleaning staff, $7.25 an hour, arson convictions preferred." The print ink is thick over the word "arsonist," like an old scab.
As she uses a prison code to scratch away the gum that's stuck in the lock, Scarlett's signature smoky laugh comes from the elevator shaft: "Honey, putting the champagne tower right where the fire started is dramatic." Crystal cups clunk like a death knell, while Ethan's muffled response is mixed with an electrical murmur: "The monitoring system is tuned up."
The mirror in the dressing room suddenly lit up, and Lila saw in the countless broken reflections that the colorful window angel in the wedding photo was bleeding and crying. As the bleach-stained handlebars of the cleaning car buried their palms in the old wound, a piano version of the wedding march came from the top floor, mixed with Scarlett's coquetted whisper: "Do you think the old payback ever came crawling back from hell?"