The guest list continued to unfurl behind her as Roo stepped into the main hall. She looked for Dax among the wine and champagne bearers. Didn’t see him. Her tablet had notified her when he’d made it through security, so she knew he was here. But where? The plan required him to be in the hall.
All around her, guests greeted and gossiped. The main hall warmed until it was stifling. Finally, Roo spotted a young man, leaning on the second-floor balcony railing, taking in the grand hall’s glitter. He caught Roo’s eye and winked. Even with the biologic modifications, she knew that grin. Her brother had traded his sommelier’s uniform for a stolen tuxedo. It fit perfectly. A purloined golden mask shimmered beneath the tumult of his dark curls. Her stomach churned. He’d only been here for five hours and he was already off-plan. Two young women hovered near his elbows.
Roo couldn’t scold him in the grand hall, and he knew it. Provocateur. If King were here—
But King isn’t here.
Roo barely dipped her head in reply. She had to trust that he’d read the situation well. That was part of the performance. The black and midnight feathers of her mask, gathered the evening before from bits and pieces around the house and grounds, trembled at the motion. They framed her eyes in a way that drew out the green in her contacts, but not too much, and matched the hand-sewn blue accents that crossed her bodice and moved down the cascade of her silk skirts and low-slung bustle.
Her fellow guests were similarly toying with the line of propriety. The bigger the gown, the more elaborate the hair, the better, as long as it was tastefully done. The effect was magical, but Roo knew, all magic was really money.
A guest in trim military blues lifted a glass in her direction. An invitation. Not yet, she smiled, then circled away from him, joining the crowd heading toward the ballroom. Beyond the threshold, music swelled. Her heart raced, anticipating the next beats of the Grand Heist.
Deep breath. This part she could do in the dark if she had to. Lift the light stuff, but only what would cause the most upset later. Roo’s fingers twitched, recalling every practice session with King and Dax. The proper way to fold one’s hand, curl a little finger, twist and lift. Over and over again, on dolls, on Nan’s aprons while the bus rolled the Skirts, on moving targets in the streets around the city.
She’d felt so powerful, then. Like she knew secrets no citizens even suspected. How long ago that had been. Her heart sank. She knew now how small and vulnerable they were.
No. She was not going to let King’s absence upset her. She heard Nan’s admonishments in the music’s weave and the hall clock’s swing: small things first, then big. No extra risks. No bravado. Keep it simple, and stick to the plan.
This was the moment no one knew she was among them. Her favorite part of a heist. When she could be anything or anyone at all.
The real excitement—at least for the guests—would begin as soon as Dax triggered the calling card. She hoped he’d constructed it as close to King’s usual calling cards as possible. It must seem as if the Canarviers performed with a full count. Once the card dropped, anything missing, from a spare tuxedo to earrings and credits, would be blamed on the thieves.
Thieves who themselves couldn’t break the event contract, even as the guests inevitably joined in the game and made their own rules. It amused her that the rich enjoyed stealing from each other. That they were no different, no better, than anyone else. Long ago, Dax had been outraged when he’d first watched an elderly man pocketing six teaspoons during his first performance. “Why should they get to keep what we’ve worked and planned for?”
Nan had shushed him. “Don’t they always?”
King had just laughed. A deep belly roll of appreciation for the game, and his family. The memory made her miss him even more. Stop it. Focus.
Roo found a good perch by an ornate champagne fountain. The tumble of bubbles ran over a replica of New Washington. The Belt Way, marking the divide between city and outskirts, held crystal coupes. The city wall and older buildings, upon which newer ones rose, the vertical farms and hopterpads, even a detailed museum with paintings and sculptures showing through the windows, all drowned in champagne. As the waterline of the surrounding basin rose, swallowing the first level of buildings, partygoers grabbed glasses and, laughing, came to the rescue.
Roo took a glass as well, then bent to fill it. As she did, she picked out several interesting targets around the room. She pulled her dance card from her sleeve and left the glass on the floor.
“Surely you are escorted tonight, madam?” A stern voice sounded close behind her. The man who’d raised his glass to her. His blue suit, which on closer inspection appeared closely styled but not actually military. His sienna-toned skin hinted at cocktails beneath an ocean Enclave’s dome. Maybe he came with the Atlantic guests.
She studied the black cutwork of her sleeves. “My date fell ill, sir.” Aimed her gaze up at him.
“That won’t do. You are escorted now.” He beamed from behind his green leather mask. The tooled leaves smelled strongly. Was it actual leather? How much could I fence that for? Especially to one of the experimental lab-vans in the Skirts.
“Rylan Stonecliff,” he said and tapped her dance card. He offered his arm.
She wavered when his name came up as [/.] on her card. Was he who he said he was? Ironic, for her to worry about that, here, now, but her training at Miss Farmer’s had kicked in. She hadn’t seen a Stonecliff in the dataset either.
He watched her gaze indifferently. That was much more interesting—that he didn’t mind her doubting him. Against her training, Roo took his arm.
Though Stonecliff smelled of whiskey, he swept Roo around the room energetically for several dances.
Dax had taken the floor as well, becoming the epicenter of a complex pavane. Three women followed him now, jewels glittering. Careful, Dax.
He said something that made them all laugh. He was definitely not keeping things simple.
When the music quieted, and the whirl of dancers slowed, Roo found herself conveniently near the doors. She watched over Stonecliff’s shoulder as Mason Graves appeared on the wide staircase. Applause bubbled up. The host eyed the cameras and his guests, straightened his jacket, and turned to the front doors. Evangeline Benford, her father, and five of her closest friends entered the main hall.
Evangeline wore a ruby-and-gold mask. The “feathers” in her headdress were hinged golden tendrils, wired to move with each breath. She lifted one feather from her crown as Mason descended to her. The crowd’s attention focused entirely on the pair.
When they met on the first stair, a few risers above their guests, Evangeline slipped an arm around his waist, leaned up for a kiss, and playfully held the sharp quill against his neck, just above the collar.
The crowd gasped. Mason’s jaw tightened. But then he chuckled, and said, with what all the feeds later acknowledged was a heart-bursting level of pride, “Happy birthday, my very own jeweled bird, with your precious feathers.”
“Oh, Lord,” Stonecliff whispered in Roo’s ear. “They got a choreographer.”
Roo stifled a giggle. Who was this man? A late invite? A competing thief? Her spine straightened and she pulled away. Security? I should have been more careful.
Stonecliff sensed the change. “A person of resources, in this Enclave, needs a firm resolve to remain independent. I see you have that.” His tone was the formal playfulness Roo had heard among Enclave kids at Miss Farmer’s. His gaze remained politely focused on their hosts. But he didn’t let Roo go.
As the couple entered the ballroom, Mason raised a dark, glittering colombina mask to his face with one hand, and spun Evangeline with the other. Choreographed indeed.
Stonecliff turned Roo back toward the floor, following their hosts, and then lapping them. “Graves.” Stonecliff inclined his head. Mason Graves missed a step. They spun past another couple. “Andrews,” Stonecliff bowed to the woman on his left. As he did, Roo saw a pale scar running from Stonecliff’s earlobe to his jaw.
He caught Roo staring and winked. Then bowed low to hand her off to Andrews, if she chose to go. Andrews was, according to the database, another offshore Enclaver. Roo did choose, determined to learn more about Rylan Stonecliff later. Graves had startled at his greeting, which made her very curious.
As they parted, Roo’s fingers lightly brushed his lapel as a goodbye. She curtseyed to Andrews, slipping Stonecliff’s pocket watch into her bustle with a deft twist. Then Andrews sped her again across the dance floor.
They made it too easy.
* * *
Dax slipped from the ballroom soon after Mason and Evangeline made their entrance. He’d enjoyed the dance while he set the calling card. Roo’s cautious next beat had him meeting her in the rose garden, or a backup location near the shared greenway and the first cherry trees.
He sniffled, sinuses already swelling from something that never bothered him in the city: pollen. His pilfered guest mask provided little protection. Can’t wait to retrieve my service mask.
His stomach growled. He had a few moments before he needed to meet Roo. He blew his nose on the fine handkerchief in the borrowed jacket pocket—tiny stars and a knotted monogram embroidered on pale silk—and looked toward the kitchen. A server was headed for the back stairs, carrying a large prep tray that smelled delicious.
Dax followed his nose.
At the bottom of the narrow staircase, the butler struggled to manage the next door and the tray together.
“Let me,” Dax said.
“It’s no bother,” the server demurred. Dax helped anyway. “My thanks.” The server tilted the tray for Dax to sample a few items. “Cured meats and eggs—all entirely legal in the enclaves of origin.”
The eggs were mottled several shades of brown. Dax took one and bit down. A savory brine filled his mouth. He smiled and chewed, trapped. Gah. Horrible. He couldn’t let on the egg was too rich for his tastes. “Delicious,” he said, and kept chewing.
When the server disappeared down the hall, he spit the rest into the kerchief. In the kitchen, he tossed the kerchief in the roaring fire where the chef was preparing a vat-grown boar’s head for the next evening’s dinner. A chef’s assistant began to shoo him away, but noted his tuxedo, and ducked her head instead.
Mustn’t offend the guests. Dax turned back to the hall. Now I’m thirsty and still hungry. Great.
Dax loved food. He and Aanand had talked about opening a pop-up. Catering opportunities were great ways into parties. He needed a cover—even King had said so. But maybe rich people food is not it. He lifted a glass from a passing tray without asking its contents. The bubbles in his drink went straight to his nose. Misery.
“You can’t drink it so fast,” a soft voice murmured. Valencia, who he’d met in the ballroom. While dancing, she’d said she was a friend of the hostess. “You’ll get used to this.”
“Used to what?”
“The noise, the cameras,” she laughed, pointing. Overhead, a small dragonfly hovered, recording. “You seemed uncomfortable.”
Dax grinned. “These? Nah. They’re everywhere.”
“Not like these. Privacy filtered. Graves has some standards, or Evangeline does. My room was camera free when I scanned it last.”
His flirtations were making him late to meet Roo. But he couldn’t have a guest following him. “Care to dance?” He offered a hand to sweep Valencia back into the ballroom. Then he sneezed.
She wrinkled her nose. “Are you ill?”
Dislike of illness in the Enclaves was understandable, given the Mess, but Dax knew these same people wouldn’t blink twice if Skirters got sick. “Cherry trees.” He gestured outside.
She didn’t look convinced. “I’m on my way to the powder room.”
“Watch out for thieves,” he said, laughing.
She grinned. “I heard they hired some! But where are they? Do you know?”
“I was just kidding.” Dax sneezed again and Valencia lost interest. The beads of her dress and mask clattered quietly as she disappeared down the stairs and Dax turned for the rose garden, moving fast. ...
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