An army of people in hotel uniforms fuss over the costumes and shell-shocked females. Women and girls sit in front of mirrors, putting on makeup or sitting mutely while someone else works on them. There are also females being dressed and then paraded in front of the staff in glamorous speakeasy dresses and old-fashioned heels.

Makeup artists rush from mirrored station to station with powder and brush in hand. One station has so much hairspray and perfume in the air that it looks like a fog has moved into that spot.

Costumes are being rolled around so fast it’s amazing they’re not crashing into each other. They give the impression of feathers and sequins zipping across the room with nervous energy. Everybody is visibly jittery.

There are far too many women here to serve as Uriel’s twin trophies. Although there must be at least a hundred people, hardly anyone is talking. The tension is more like that of a funeral home rather than a prep room for an elaborate party or play or whatever this is.

I stand by the entrance, staring. I have no idea what I’m supposed to do. I like the chaos. It might give me a chance to sneak away and look for Paige or Beliel. It gets even better when Madeline seems to forget about us and marches off to give orders to a group of hairdressers.

I drift around the room among the ribbons and sparkles. The only whispered conversations I hear repeat the same mantra: “Get yourself an angel protector, or else.”

I find myself melting into the group of matching females who are being prepped in one corner of the ballroom. My look-alike is already there. The women are made up in pairs to look like identical twins, which several of them are.

So this is why Uriel’s trophy women looked so terrified when I saw them at the last aerie. They’d been drafted from the jail cells of Alcatraz and had probably known about the horrors awaiting them if they didn’t please Uriel. I thought the aerie club scene was surreal when I was there, but now I realize how insane the whole thing must have been to the girls who came from that nightmare factory.

Just when I think we’ve been orphaned enough for me to sneak off, Daniel, Madeline’s assistant, rushes in to talk to her. His voice carries over the eerie quiet.

“ ‘Brunettes. Small, but well-proportioned,’ he says.” Daniel gives her an I-told-you-so look.

Madeline scans the group of girls standing in pairs. Everyone freezes like a rabbit waiting for a hawk to swoop down. The girls all try to escape Madeline’s notice by shrinking and looking anywhere but at her.

She looks at me and my matching pair, Andi. We’re the smallest of the brunettes. Her lips thin out into a stubborn line.