“Those are for practice.” Her smile was nothing but patience. “This is the real deal. Let’s hop to it. Breasts first.”

She was so no-nonsense, I didn’t know how to protest.

Violet would do this in a blink. I opened the robe on the right side first, then the left. Tiana pressed the coverings in place.

“Stay still for a few seconds, please. It’s fast acting.” She covered me up so I wouldn’t have to move my arms.

“Thanks.”

“Do you need to go to the bathroom?”

“I’m good.”

“Okay. Legs apart.”

If I weren’t so dazed from lack of sleep and lack of coffee, I would probably have run away. As it was, I seemed to be always a step behind. By the time I could have worked up any serious objections, my last piece of covering was in place.

Who was this person letting someone do this to her?

Long before I could answer that question, Tiana said, “Okay. Go, go, go.”

I gingerly followed the others past the same double doors Strena had come through earlier. I couldn’t catch my breath. I was being swept away by a hurricane. Strena lived up to her name.

The large space was set up like a circular theater, about a thousand empty seats in concentric circles, a small round stage in the middle, on wheels. In the middle of the platform stood a metal volcano, melted sugar trickling down its side into a basin, then somehow pumped back up so it could circulate. Strena’s wand rested on the edge of the crater.

She clapped her hands. “Models, take your places.”

Twelve women, including me, stepped onto the stage. Strena arranged us around the volcano at haphazard intervals, making sure to leave enough room between us for her to pass when she did her work. She faced some of us outward, some inward. I was facing the volcano, which I liked. I felt marginally more comfortable presenting my naked back to someone sitting a few feet from me than flashing them my front.

“Robes off, when you’re ready. We need to calibrate the lighting and the cameras.”

All the other models dropped their robes, white petals falling from almond trees.

Strena shouted instructions, and the spotlights came on. I squinted at the world-famous art photographer who was adjusting a handful of cameras on tripods around the stage. Was she…

“Jordan Kane is here,” I whispered at Strena when she walked over to me.

“She’s making a series of photographs about the show. Take off your robe, please.”

Nobody else had raised a fuss. I let the silk slide off my shoulders and pool at my feet. There. Now Strena would see now how big a mistake she had made.

She tapped the back of my knee. “One foot forward. I want a sense of movement. Arms loose but purposeful. Head up.”

“What if I can’t do it?”