She was wearing lipstick.
Ronsard noticed it the same time Niema did. "Laure!" he exclaimed. He put his hands on his hips and gave her a stern look. "I forbade you to wear lipstick."
She gave him a long-suffering look, as if she despaired of ever making him understand. "I wanted to look nice, Papa. For Madame Jamieson."
"You are beautiful as you are; you don't need lipstick. You are too young for makeup."
"Yes, but you're my papa," she said with unassailable logic. "You always think I'm beautiful."
"I think the shade is very flattering," Niema said, because females should always stick together. She wasn't lying; Laure displayed an intelligence beyond her years by choosing a delicate shade of rose and using only a light application. Anything more would have looked garish in such an unearthly pale face. She ignored the girl's tiny size; what was important here was her mind, not her body.
Ronsard's eyebrows flew up in disbelief. "You're taking the part of this . . . this disobedient hoyden?"
Laure giggled at hearing herself described as a hoyden. Niema met Ronsard's accusing look with an innocent expression and a shrug. "Of course. What did you expect me to do?"
"'Agree with him," Laure said. "He expects all of his women to agree with him."
This time Ronsard's astonishment wasn't feigned. Stunned at hearing such a statement issuing from his innocent daughter's lips, he stared speechlessly at her.
"But I'm not one of his women," Niema pointed out. "I'm just a friend."
"He has never brought any of the others to meet me. Since he brought you, I thought perhaps he wants you to be my maman."
Ronsard made a little choking sound. Niema ignored him to grin at the child. "No, it's nothing like that. We aren't in love with each other, and besides, your papa is allergic to marriage."
"I know, but he would marry if he thought that was what I want. He spoils me terribly. He will get anything I ask for, so I try not to ask for very much, or he would be too busy to do anything else."
She was an alarming blend of childlike innocence and trust, and an astuteness far beyond her years. Whatever her physical problems were, they had forced her to look inward much earlier than young people usually learned to do. "While he is recovering," she said, briskly turning the wheelchair, "I'll show you my rooms."
Niema strolled beside the chair while Laure gave her a guided tour of her suite. Everything had been specially outfitted so she could reach it from a wheelchair, and attached to one side of the chair was a long pair of tongs so she could pick up anything she dropped. A middle-aged woman came forward, smiling, to be introduced as Laure's nurse, Bernadette. Her bedroom opened off Laure's, so she was available during the night if she was needed.
Anything that could possibly interest a young girl had been made available. There were books, movies, dolls, games, samplers she had made, fashion magazines. Laure showed all of them to Niema, while Ronsard trailed behind, bewildered and bemused at being made to feel unnecessary.
Laure even showed Niema her makeup case. Ronsard made choking noises again. This was not a little girl's pretend makeup, but the real stuff from Dior, stunningly packaged in a silver train case. "I ordered it," Laure said, unperturbed by her father's horror. "But nothing looks right when I put it on. Even the lipstick is too . .. too much like a clown. Today, I rubbed my finger on the stick, then on my lips."
"That's good. It's called staining," Niema said, pulling a chair over to sit beside the girl and taking the train case on her lap. She began pulling out the sleek containers of makeup. "Makeup is like anything else, it takes practice to use. And some things will never look good because they don't flatter your coloring. You learn by experimenting. Would you like me to show you?"
"Oh, please," Laure said eagerly, leaning forward.
"I forbid it," Ronsard said, with more desperation than sternness. "She is too young-"
"Louis," Niema interrupted. "Go away. This is girl stuff."
He didn't go away. He sat down, a charmingly helpless expression on his face, watching as Niema demonstrated how to use each item.
A pink blush was much too dark for that white face. Niema took a tissue and wiped most of it off, leaving only a delicate tint. "Remember, none of this sets into stone when you apply it. If it is too much, wipe part of it off. I always have a tissue and cotton swabs with me when I put on makeup, so I can make the effect more subtle. Do you see my eyeliner?" She leaned closer, and Laure nodded as she stared hard at Niema's eyes.
"I use a black pencil, like this-very soft, so it doesn't pull my skin. Then I use a swab to wipe most of it away, so it's barely noticeable. But my coloring is dark, while yours is fair, so black would be too harsh for you. When you are old enough to start wearing eyeliner, use a soft gray or taupe-"
The makeup lesson went on, with Laure hanging on every word. Under Niema's tutelage, very little was actually applied to the small, skeletal face, just the merest hint of color. Laure peered in a mirror, studied herself, and smiled. "Now I don't look so ill," she said with satisfaction. "Thank you very much, Madame Jamieson. Were you watching, Papa?"
"Yes, I was watching. It looks very nice, but-"
"If I die, I want you to make certain someone puts makeup on me just like this. I do not want to look sick when I reach Heaven."
All the color drained out of Ronsard's face. Niema felt stricken on his behalf, but also for this little girl who had never in her life known what it was to enjoy good health, to run and play like other children.