Back in the States, the scent of the new Secret Magazine was everywhere—literally. It wasn't just on the racks; it was the only thing the pack was howling about. I could catch snatches of conversation in every coffee shop and subway station:
“Did you see the new Secret? That cover... it’s haunting.”
“I was going to grab the latest Fine Figures, but I couldn't take my eyes off this one.”
“Wait, Secret? That rag hasn't had a relevant scent in years. They wouldn't know high fashion if it bit them.”
“Trust me, go buy it. It’s a complete rebirth. If you don't get a copy before the moon sets, you'll regret it.”
The parchment was flying off the shelves. For seasons, Secret had been a fading power, its influence dwindling to nothing. But this cycle was different. That melancholy, silver-and-s
