“We don’t have definitive proof,” I told her, “but I have an informant that has said that. But my informant may have been involved. What I still don’t know is where she is now.”
Diana started to say something, then stopped. I watched her swallow, lick her lips, then ask, “Do you think she’s still alive?”
“Actually,” I said, “I do. That doesn’t mean we’ll get her back, but I don’t think the people who have her intend to kill her. But I haven’t given up hope, and I don’t want you to, either.”
The hope that blossomed in her eyes, on her face, was heartbreaking.
“Thank you, Danica,” she said, her eyes tearing up.
Chapter 43
That evening, looking at myself in the mirror, I wondered if the tomboy I’d always been was finally growing up. I thought I looked ravishing, and I was rather pleased about it. Madame Clairemont had outdone herself. The wide panel of glass beads outlining the deep V in the back matched the silver strands in my dark hair—what my father used to call ‘moonlight highlights,’ or sometimes ‘moonbeams.’ The royal blue silk-satin deepened the blue of my eyes.
Now, if I could manage not to express an opinion, break anyone’s arm, or throw a glass of champagne in some bitch’s face, I might make my grandmother happy and catch a husband.
I cracked up at the thought. Naw, never going to happen. I checked my wrist purse to make sure I had my father’s box and my needle gun, an invention of my own. It looked like a small writing pen and fired tiny needles of a frozen magikally enhanced knockout drug. I could also load it with various poisons, but figured that would be frowned upon at my cousin’s betrothal ball.
Kirsten looked like a fairy tale princess. The billowing layers of pale pink chiffon gave her an ephemeral look, as though she was floating. I could tell from the grin she couldn’t control that she was having the time of her life. She looked like a woman who would make the perfect trophy wife, but God help any fool who married her for her looks. Beautiful as she was, her beauty was the least of her gifts. And then there was her need to win, her ice-cold temper, and her absolute confidence that she was always right.
“Come along,” I said. “I can’t wait to see the looks of awe when we make our entrance.”
She giggled. The woman actually giggled. I made a note to myself to monitor her champagne intake.
“Where are we going?” Kirsten asked when we passed the stairs leading to the ground floor.
“Different staircase,” I said. I led her down a long hallway, all the way through the family quarters to a doorway. I pressed my palm against a metal plate set in the wall, and the magitek door opened after it read my DNA. A short, narrow hall took a couple of turns, then another door opened into a wide balcony overlooking the ballroom. A lot of people had already arrived. The orchestra was playing, but no one was dancing yet. It was the greet-and-mingle stage of the festivities.
“Are you ready?” I asked. I saw her hesitation as she gazed down on the throng below us. “Deep breath, and a slow descent. These stairs are extra wide.”
I hitched up my skirts and walked to the precipice. The staircase was wide enough for eight people to walk side-by-side. It curved as it descended, and anyone making their entrance was visible to everyone below.
I was glad I had to navigate the plunge only on two-inch heels rather than the four-inch spikes Kirsten was wearing, but she was used to such shoes. Due to my height, I’d never had to learn to walk in wobbly high heels. And in a floor-length gown, no one could see my shoes anyway.
We didn’t cause a riot, but we did attract enough attention to make me feel good. I would have been crushed if we were ignored. Afterall, there were only a hundred or so marriageable women our age in attendance.
When we neared the bottom, I spotted my grandmother, standing with Granduncle George and Grandaunt Denise. They were watching us, and they seemed to be pleased. I breathed a sigh of relief. It was pretty obvious to me that my invitation and wonderful dress had a reason behind them. I might not be on board with their intentions, but at least I hadn’t pissed them off. To my mind, I had fulfilled my part of the deal. Now I just had to be pleasant and dodge the suitors they had lined up.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been so nervous in my life,” Kirsten said.
She followed me to say hello to my oldest relatives. They had all met her before, and they greeted her as an old friend. That helped to put her at ease. The formalities over, I headed toward the booze.
“I thought you said there wouldn’t be any food,” Kirsten said, looking over the buffet on the sideboard.
“Caviar on toast points isn’t food,” I answered, taking a flute of champagne. I watched her take a bite and make a face.
“Salty. Fishy.”
“That’s what the champagne is for, to wash the taste away. Try the ones with the salmon pate instead if you want fish.” I took one of the soft-cheese-and-sausage ones. Tasty.
“Gotcha.”
About twenty minutes later, the orchestra fell silent, and everyone turned toward the grand staircase. The lady of the hour stood there, the only woman in the place dressed in white. Even I had to admit that Lila looked radiant. The band took up a new tune, and she started down. Her fiancé met her at the bottom, took her hand, and led her out onto the dance floor.
He took her in his arms, and they launched into the traditional betrothal dance. Ballroom dancing, totally different from dancing in a bar, was a holdover from before the pandemics. Partners actually touching each other, getting in each other’s faces. From
